It's a poorboy sanditch,' Roland said. 'With lots of mayo, whatever that is. I'd want a sauce that didn't look quite so much like come, myself, but may it do ya fine.

French is the language that turns dirt into romance.

Take the dead from the dead, the old proverb said; only a corpse may speak true prophecy.

Dead fields under a November sky, scattered rose petals brown and turning up at the edges, empty pools scummed with algae, rot, decomposition, dust.

...you need openness and inability to do anything other than get to the point.

In many ways, Eulah-Beulah prepared me for literary criticism. After having a two-hundred-pound babysitter fart on your face and yell Pow!, The Village Voice holds few terrors.

I can't understand why people use religion to hurt each other when there's already so much pain in the world.