a woman who refuses to turn her back on the past and is changed to salt,

Invent real tears, hard love, slow-spoken, ancient words, difficult as a child’s first steps across a room.

The genre is dead. Invent something new. Invent a man and a woman naked in a garden, invent a child that will save the world, a man who carries his father out of a burning city. Invent a spool of thread that leads a hero to safety, invent an island on which he abandons the woman who saved his life with no loss of sleep over his betrayal.

with numbers stamped on our backs.

We hear each other through water.

The only people left in England were the ones who couldn’t leave.

threat.

Yet none of it struck him quite as much as the sensation that there was someone or something else in that grim room, both unseen and present, and coming for him as much as for anybody. ♦

It would surely count toward completion of Module 19, which emphasized empathy for the dispossessed.

He was from nowhere, too.” “Nowhere?” “Like you.” Not for the first time the boy was struck by the great human mysteries of this world.

He knew he was being cruel—but she was ruining his concentration. He stopped running and split the visuals, the better to stare her down. “Any system?” “No.” “Therefore no. No, you can’t.”

“Do you have an Augmentor?”

“Everyone’s got a good angel and a bad angel,” she explained. “And if it’s a bad angel that picks you out”—she pointed to a craft swooping low—“there’s no escaping it. You’re done for.”

I’ve done nothing wrong but still Melly’s gone and left me and one of them thing’s been following me, since the pier—even before that.”

He wanted to augment in clean, blank places, where he was free to fully extend, unhindered.

single turd

single turd

“Got something in his hands—or thinks he does.” She took a packet of tobacco from a deep pocket in the front of her garment and began to roll a cigarette, using the girl as a shield from the wind.

macular degeneration

type O

A hand, lousy with blue veins, reached out for the light encircling the boy’s head, as if it were a substantial thing, to be grasped like the handle of a mug. “Ooh, look at the green, Aggie. That shows you it’s on.” The boy was ready to play. He touched the node on his finger to the node at his temple, raising the volume.

Alexie, “How to Write . . .” Sherman Alexie, “How to Write the Great American Indian Novel” (1996) All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms. Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food. The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory. If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.

If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.

should express deep affection in a childlike way.

For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender not important

In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written, all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts. div.wpmrec2x{max-width:610px;} div.wpmrec2x div.u > div{float:left;margin-right:10px;} div.wpmrec2x div.u > div:nth-child(3n){margin-right:0px;}

An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances, everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture. There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.

gamey

He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.

Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the monster up within the tomb!

My heart beat calmly as that of one who slumbers in innocence

I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!

I soundly and tranquilly slept; aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my soul!

But this blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded, by the interference, into a rage more than demoniacal, I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the axe in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a groan.

there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment that seemed, but was not, remorse.

It was a black cat — a very large one — fully as large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although indefinite splotch of white, covering nearly the whole region of the breast.

One night as I sat, half stupified, in a den of more than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to some black object, reposing upon the head of one of the immense hogsheads of Gin, or of Rum, which constituted the chief furniture of the apartment.

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from theconflagration. The destruction was complete. My entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I resigned myself thenceforward to despair. I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

One morning, in cool blood, I slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb of a tree; — hung it with the tears streaming from my eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; — hung it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I felt it had given me no reason of offence; — hung it because I knew that in so doing I was committing a sin — a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my immortal soul as to place it — if such a thing were possible — even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God.

Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or a silly action, for no other reason than because he knows he should not?

I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.

I had so much of my old heart left, as to be at first grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a creature which had once so loved me.