There was always that shadowy twin, thin when i was fat, fat when i was thin, myself in silvery narrative...
If anyone else told her to lower her voice, Roz would know what to do: scream louder.
Becka said that spelling was not reading. “Reading,” she said, “was when you could hear the words as if they were a song.
It was only a dream. It was only a larval poem. –.
Even guppies have their opacities.
That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain. You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done;.
A breath would blow you away, they beam down at her silently. You wish, thinks Tony, smiling up. Many have blown. She.
He put his arms around me. We were both feeling miserable. How were we to know we were happy, even then? Because we at least had that: arms, around.
I’m training to be an Aunt,” I said. “I’m not really supposed to like anyone.” 49 My reading abilities progressed slowly and with many stumbles.
I am not being wasted. Why do I want?
Only fools, he said, were given to bragging about how much they could drink.
Jon smashes things, and glues the shards into place in the pattern of breakage. I can see the appeal.
All she wants is a miracle, because anything else is hopeless.
The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself.
Chemistry can be like magic. It can be merciless.
It was our hands that were supposed to be full, of the future; which could be held but not seen.
For present purposes he’s shortened the name. He’s only Snowman. He’s kept the abominable to himself, his own secret hair shirt.
You read and read the material and after you’ve read the twentieth article you can’t make any sense out of it anymore, and then you start thinking about the number of books that are published in any given year, in any given month, in any given week, and that’s just too much. Words,’ he said, looking in my direction finally but with his eyes strangely unfocussed, as though he was really looking at a point several inches beneath my skin, ’are beginning to lose their meanings.
I pray silently: Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. I don’t know what it means, but it sounds right, and it will have to do, because I don’t know what else I can say to God.
So, the book is not ‘anti-religion.’ It is against the use of religion as a front for tyranny; which is a different thing altogether.