They shoot the white girl first. With the rest they can take their time. No need to hurry out here.
It is cold at 6:40 in the morning of a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad.
Every Sunday I perform the sabbathday ritual. First I scan the top ten films at the weekend box office to count how many have female protagonists. Then I count how many are written, directed or produced by women.
It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.
We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. It was surprising there were so many of us left to die.
I write this with a baseball bat by the bed. A weapon that will do more damage than you can bring yourself to inflict is useless; last time I made the wrong choice.
You’ve sworn never to write a piece in Second Person. You ask yourself why.
Mum says, “Don’t come creeping into our room at night.” They sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs. She says, “Don’t startle us when we’re sleeping.”
Robin Williams was an airman, a doctor, a genie, a nanny, a president, a professor, a bangarang Peter Pan, and everything in between. But he was one of a kind.
It’s another Iraqi town, nameless to the Marines racing down the main drag in Humvees, blowing it to pieces.
If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book.
When you met a girl from another factory, you quickly took her measure. What year are you? you asked each other, as if speaking not of human beings but of the makes of cars.
The abyss should shut you up. Sunlight hasn’t touched these waters for a million years.
And then there was that time she had me cornered in the kitchen, back against the wall and she got so close I could smell the potato chips on her breath. And she was yelling, “Hit me! Hit me! Hit me! Do it! Do it! Hit me now!”
This book attempts to provide a short history of everybody for the last 13,000 years.
The human head is of the same approximate size and weight as a roaster chicken. I have never before had occasion to make the comparison, for never before today have I seen a head in a roasting pan.
This is a true story about friendship that runs deeper than blood. This is my story and that of the only three friends in my life that truly mattered. Two of them were killers who never made it past the age of 30.
This is a love story, which, like all great love stories, is ultimately a story of loss.
I’ve been a bad, bad girl. I’ve been careless with a delicate man. And it’s a sad, sad world when a girl will break a boy just because she can.
The moment I heard how McAra died, I should have walked away. I can see that now.
Imagine this: You’ve just spent three weeks painstakingly replicating a Picasso painting from scratch—you’ve scrutinized documentation about the artist’s creative process; you’ve practiced his brushstrokes, so your work will look convincing; you’ve even painted in noted preliminary images, then covered them up, because that’s what he did. You’ve toiled over this, all for mere seconds of screen time in a film.
Pimps make the best librarians. Psycho killers, the worst. Ditto con men.
Claudia knew that she could never pull off the old-fashioned kind of running away. That is, running away in the heat of anger with a knapsack on her back.
I was 12 going on 13 the first time I saw a dead human being. It happened in the summer of 1959. A long time ago. But only if you measure in terms of years.
Get over that sorrow, girl. The world is always going to be made of this.