The only thing dumber than a broody hen was a New York Democrat.
My life for you. I lay down my life for you.
The wise man doesn’t poke a sleeping bear with a stick.
It was a thing as alien to this place and time as true love, and yet as concrete as a Judgment, a silent reminder of the time when the world had not yet moved on.
So I’ll wait, and sooner or later I’ll know. I don’t believe it’s a question anymore of calling them or not calling them. Only a question of when.
Off you go, killers and killed alike, off you go into the universal null set that surrounds one lonely blue planet and all its mindlessly bustling denizens. every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.
Moonlight flooded in the windows and silvered the room, turning it into a lagoon of dreams.
She put on the teapot and laid a couple of Oreos on a plate for Danny in case he decided to come up while she was lying down.
Mom mustn’t find the box because moms want to know everything.
Most home invasion victims with arms find themselves in Herbert Clutter’s position: surprised and overwhelmed. Unless you sleep with your .45 auto fully loaded and under your pillow, you’re apt to find yourself in the same position if the bad guys ever should show up in your bedroom, enquiring as to the location of your safe.
He was afraid – it would have been foolish not to be – but he was also curious. And something else. Happy? Was that it? Yes. Probably crazy, but definitely yes. Certainly he felt singled out somehow. Doctor Bob might think that was crazy, but Scott thought it was sane. Why feel bad about what you couldn’t change? Why not embrace it?
Let them be anything but the creatures which leap and crawl and slither and shamble in the world between. Let there be God, let there be Sunday morning, let there be smiling Episcopalian ministers in shining white surplices... but let there not be these dark and draggling horrors on the nightside of the universe.
Such news only served to increase her belief that men were not so much gifted with penises as cursed with them.
It’s not okay to send a feeble kid out to fight our battles, and it’s not okay to push people around like pawns on a fuckin chessboard and it’s not okay giving orders to kill like a Mafia boss.
If this is a dream, the details are good. It’s the absolute truth. They are a novelist’s details... but in dreams, perhaps everyone is a novelist. How is one to know?
She didn’t like seeing that look in his face, but she wanted to see it there, she did. He was a man, wasn’t he? And sometimes men had to learn what it was to be afraid of a woman.
That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
August Heat,” by W. F. Harvey – that.
Tief in seinem Inneren war nur Larry und sah heraus. Er duldete nur sich selbst in seinem Herzen.
One became an old fox by being careful and opportunistic, by mating as frequently as possible while avoiding entanglements, by never crossing roads in daylight, and by digging deeply in good soft loam.