I could bear the memory, but I could not bear the music that made the memory such a killing thing.

Mama always taught her children that words were pretty, but anyone can talk. She said, pay attention to that man or woman who acted, who did, who performed. She taught us to trust in thing we could see, not that we heard.

One can learn anything, anything at all, I thought, if provided by a gifted and passionate teacher.

There are no ideas in the South, just barbecue.

The English language on her tongue became a smoke-screen, without her eyes changing expression in the least.

It did not look like the work of God, but it might have represented the handicraft of a God with a joyous sense of humor, a dancing God who loved mischief as much as prayer, and playfulness as much as mischief.

Love had always issued out of the places that hurt the most.