How nice – to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.
Well, here we are, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.
There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no causes, no effects. What we love in our books are the depths of many marvelous moments seen all at one time.
I let the dog out, or I let him in, and we talk some. I let him know I like him, and he lets me know he likes me.
And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.
There is nothing intelligent to say about a massacre. Everybody is supposed to be dead, to never say anything or want anything ever again. Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
So it goes.[repeated often in the rest of the book]
She was a dull person, but a sensational invitation to make babies.
People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore.
No art is possible without a dance with death.
Lot’s wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.
I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone.
