Just because you’re funny doesn’t mean you get to be cruel.
Sitting in my favorite coffeehouse with a new notebook and a hot cup of java is my idea of Heaven.
When you peeled back the skin, you were dealing with bone and muscle, blood and nerve endings. It was all the same. She liked the beautiful logic of the circulatory system, the elegance of the neurological, and the fierce warrior spirit of the heart. The body had rules and it had quirks.
Will you punish me forever?
Tell my brother to remember his heart in all things. That is where his honor and his destiny will be found. Tell him.
True affection and love have a purity which shall always prevail over bigotry.
We’re like pretty horses, and just as on horses, they mean to put blinders on us so we can’t look left or right but only straight ahead where they would lead.
The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else’s fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves.
It’s so laughable that it’s somewhere beyond comedy and right into tragedy again.
Or perhaps it is some combination of spirit and desire, love and hope, some alchemy that we each possess and can put to use, if we first know where to look without flinching.
Warning: If you are insufferable, do not walk here. We shall eat you down to the marrow.
And now I understand that truth casts a spell of its own, one I’m not sure of how to hold on to, though I’m desperate to try.
Tonight, she went into the woods, and I fear she shall live in the woods of my soul for the rest of my days.
He plants his feet stubbornly, adopting what he must think is an heroic post. He’s just begging for a pigeon to fly by and relieve itself.
I know I’ve done the right thing but I couldn’t feel worse about it, and I suppose that is part of what it is to lead.
The face staring back at me isn’t beautiful but she isn’t something that would scare the horses, either.
Please do not strain yourself, Miss Doyle. I won’t have my girls going cross-eyed in the name of art.
When the music is over, she keeps her head down till she finds her seat again, and I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.
No? Part girl, part wolf? Do they lick their butter knives?
They don’t know what they’re in for at Spence, getting me, a ghost of a girl who’ll nod and smile and take her tea but who isn’t really here.