Believe it or not – it takes a lot of love to hate you like this.
I’ve been a writer since I was 16. I didn’t get published until I was 24. I know that sounds crazy.
A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.
Sometimes you read a book so special that you want to carry it around with you for months after you’ve finished just to stay near it.
I see Death as the part of us that knows all the time that we’re going to die, reminding us to live properly.
I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.
It’s not a big thing, but I guess it’s true – big things are often just small things that are noticed.
One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.
They’d been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.
When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.
The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
But for now, happiness throws stones. It guards itself. I wait.
Not a beauty queen. Not one of those. You know the ones. She was real.
He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.
I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
The days and nights come apart. I feel them corroding at the seams.
But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?
Only in today’s sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.
The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?