Too much has been forgotten in the name of memory.
A mystery novel localizes the awesome force of the real death outside the book, winds it tightly in a plot.
Was she naked?" Lasher said. "To the waist," Cotsakis said. "From which direction?" Lasher said.
Talent is more erotic when it's wasted.
Out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we kept inventing hope.
People say great art is immortal. I say there's something mortal in it. It carries a glimpse of death.