Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away. Who shall resist the summons?
What I've learned is that there is nothing in this life that does not fail to disappoint us, even our own deaths.
Our worlds are so momentary. We are along all our lives and then go off that way as well.
And it's exactly what's wrong with the radio. It's like. . . anything that tries to appeal to everybody always ends up sounding so cheap.
After school the very next day, El Rey's mobile home was gone. I laid in bed and wondered what happens to people when they go, if they become like shadows, if they fade away when they disappear from your life. The only thing I could see was the broken picket fence. The only sound I could hear was the cry of birds being killed in the night.
I always feel super uncomfortable when it's like ah, there probably has to be a sex scene. I feel really bad and then always look around to see if anyone is watching me while I'm writing. I want to apologize to people who have to read those sex scenes, but I feel like it's part of the characters life, it's important.
Above the dirt of an unmarked grave and beneath the shadow of the abandoned refinery, the children would play their own made up games: Wild West Accountants! in which they would calculate the loss of a shipment of gold stolen from an imaginary stagecoach, or Recently Divorced Scientists! in which they would build a super-collider out of garbage to try and win back their recently lost loves.
The artist's role isn't to tell people how to feel, but reflect.
Do you think they missed him terribly when he fell? Did God cry over his lost angel, I wonder?
The most original novelist now writing in English.
The Rainbow Fish shared his scales left end right. And the more he gave away, the more delighted he became. When the water around him filled with glimmering scales, he at last felt at home among the other fish.