Each morning, before Jackie started her studies, she wrote on a clean piece of paper: Tarde venientibus ossa. To the latecomers are left the bones.

There's little question that short stories, like poetry, don't get the respect they deserve in the culture - but what can you do? Like Canute, one cannot fight the sea, you have to go with your love, and hope one day, things change.

Shot at twenty-seven times - what a Dominican number.

We can speculate. Last time I checked, the future doesn't take my advice.

She smelled like herself, like the wind through a tree.

I'm having so much trouble with writing. Maybe if I help other people, it'll be easier for me.

You're the only person I've ever met who can stand a bookstore as long as I can.