All the distress signals . . . people who are not sighing but crying, not dangling but strangling, not holding up but holding on, not asking but pleading . . .
We live in the kind of world where there is so much insecurity, where people seek such protection in the pack, in uniformity, that they always have to be reassured.
Dawn dispels darkness each morning in an unending miracle of rebirth.
Love is the flower that blossoms even in the dust, in the rubble of cities, in all seasons of the heart. Sentimental, yes. But no one ever died of sentiment or of too much tenderness.
It was good to have people hate you—it kept you sharp.
The worst part of Leon’s fury was the way he whispered, this terrible tortured hissing from his mouth, giving his words a tone more deadly than a shout or a yell.
The silence in the class was the kind Goober had never heard before. Stunned, eerie, suffocating.
He was stunned by the knowledge that pain isn’t just one thing—it is cunning and various, sharp here and sickening there, burning here and clawing there.
He could taste the hate in his stomach—it was acid, foul, burning.
And, without warning, the anguish of her loss returned, like a blow to his stomach, and he was afraid that he would faint.
The night was suddenly sweet, a time to cherish. I would wish for it never to end.
I saw how young they were, boys with apple cheeks, too young to shave. Like me.
I drove away slowly, and I kept telling myself desperately that I wasn't saying goodbye.
Dusk would creep into the neighborhood like a gentle dust that took the sharp edges away.
Whenever you are on the edge of revealing something important in your past, you stall, voicing suspicions of my questions because you are afraid, because you are reluctant to face your past.
It's good to go away sometimes, if only because coming back is so sweet.
Words. Words that allow us to communicate, to reach out, to touch each other if only verbally. And the other side of words where we find silence. And how silence, too, is precious.
I have words to spend and sometimes spend them foolishly, of course, squandering verbs and nouns, sending metaphors askew, and using similes like fireworks whose sparks often fail to flame.
Life becomes a series of small but sweet happenings. Sometimes the movie turns out to be terrific, after all.
The sky was immense. And if you looked at it enough as you lay on the lawn, you were suddenly dizzy—and infinity seemed to beckon.
There's the telephone call that goes on too long simply because the person at the other end of the line can't bear the thought of the silent rooms after hanging up.