Maybe that’s what life is,” Elsie said. “Mysteries atop mysteries. We think we know everything but we don’t know anything, not really.
Always I try to write about people. People are interested in other people always.
A man can’t hit a woman and stay a man. He becomes a loathsome thing, even to himself. But the woman who stays with such a man panders to his darkness. They both risk their souls.
There are two things every woman really wants: one, she wants to know that a man really loves her, and two, that he isn’t going to stop.
A lot of folks just get it in their head that, for instance, like writing memoirs is just easy. You just write down what happened. It doesn’t quite work that way.
The key to not getting rejected if you’re writing for a magazine, is to know to read that magazine and know everything about them before you ever make a submission.
But that’s what kismet is. It makes us careen off in odd directions from which we learn not only what life is about but what it is for. This journey may be nothing less than your chance to discover these things.” “You’re.
The way I see it, if everybody ran from bad things instead of trying to stop them, bad things would be all there is.
We had to start somewhere, either succeed or fail, and then build what we knew as we went along.
There’s a plan. If you’re willing to fight it hard enough, you can make it detour for a while, but you’re still going to end up wherever God wants you to be. G.
Anybody raised here belongs here. You can’t belong anywhere else.
It was during a strike when I first saw hate on a man’s face. Hate is an awful thing. It gets inside you and makes you do things you swear you’d never do.
Sometimes now, I wake at night, thinking I have heard the sound of my father’s footsteps on the stairs or the shuffling boots and low murmur of the hoot-owl shift going to work. In that half-world between sleep and wakefulness, I can almost hear the ringing of a hammer on steel and the dry hiss of the arc welder at the little machine shop by the tipple. But it is only a trick of my imagination; nearly everything that I knew in Coalwood is gone.
Even now, Coalwood endures, and no one, nor careless industry or overzealous government, can ever completely destroy it – not while we who once lived there may recall our life among its places, or especially remember rockets that once leapt into the air propelled not by physics but by the vibrant love of an honorable people, and the instruction of a dear teacher, and the dreams of boys.
Nothing on this planet could slink like a fox, Mom said, except maybe a politician in a beer joint.
My agent in Miami told me you were coming. I like to keep up with who’s coming to my island, especially government and railroad men. Typically, I don’t like either one but considering your girl here and your car and the fact that you have an alligator with a rooster on his back, I would guess you might be at least interesting. Name’s Ernest. Some people call me Hem.” After a brief pause he added, “As in Hemingway.” Homer.
Most things take more time than we believe they will. But, now, what about love? Will love take more time than you think?” “I don’t know anything about love.” “That is true,” she agreed. “Yet, every mile you travel on this journey is for this thing you don’t know anything about.” Homer.
Let me find you. If you don’t, I will still look. If you won’t, I will still look. If you can’t, I will still look. It is the looking that finds the love, Not the finding. Homer.
It didn’t matter if three hundred million years passed, our part in the timeline would be there, affecting everything that was to come.
Any time a man hits a woman, it’s no longer between him and her.