Fiction is a solution, the best solution, to the problem of existential solitude.
Yes, but that’s because you’re not poor. When you’re poor, things just happen to you. You feel like you can’t control anything. You’re completely at God’s mercy. That’s why Jesus tells us that the poor are blessed – because having nothing brings you closer to God.” “That woman didn’t strike me as being especially close to God.
Your father doesn’t look to our Savior but to what other men think of him. He preaches love but holds a grudge like no mans business.
It occurred to her that the Perry in her head had been nothing but a sentimental projection, extrapolated from the little boy he’d been. She didn’t know the real Perry any more than Russ knew the real her. “How.
It was unfair to have enjoyed her body when she was young and then burdened her with children and a thousand duties, only to now feel miserable whenever he had to venture into public with her and her sorry hair, her unavailing makeup, her seemingly self-spiting choice of dress. He pitied her for the unfairness; he felt guilty. But he couldn’t help blaming her, too, because her unattractiveness advertised unhappiness.
A noseful of Cottrell ought to have sobered her, but somehow everything was interchangeable.
I think badness is the fundamental condition of humanity.
According to Scripture, earthly life was but a moment, but the moment seemed spacious when he was with her.
There was a kind of liberation in jettisoning all thought of being a good person.
And so began the remainder of her life.
Marion stepped up to the counter and surveyed the candy-bar display with militant loathing.
In the hush of the emptied campus, he could faintly hear the mightiness of Illinois, the rumble of a freight train, the moan of eighteen-wheelers, coal transported from the south, car parts from the north, fattened livestock and staggering corn yields from the middle, all roads leading to the broad-shouldered city on the lake.
The perfect gift for the man who had everything was a quarter-ounce bottle of feminism.
Perhaps the soul was one of those tools built to do exactly one specific task, to know that I am I, and was mutable with respect to all other forms of knowledge?
You have some fine qualities, but imagination was never one of them.
I’m the fat little humiliation he’s married to.
The whole notion of coolness was puerile.
It was strange that self-pity wasn’t on the list of deadly sins; none was deadlier.
She’d seen enough of socialism to foresee its ultimate failure, she knew the Soviets to be thieves, rapists, and murderers, and she never got over the shock of discovering that my father was rich only in comparison to Jena, only the way most Americans were rich.
Clem couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. He was giving up his student deferment to show his father what a strong man did.
Evil had pursued her all her life, and now the world was exploding with the color of it, and nowhere was there refuge.