But in a story I can steal her soul.
What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.
I guess we're really brothers, aren't we? Don't know what that means, except it means that some of the same things we remember.
Life is never all one thing. It bounces around. Certainly, my own life has.
Everything was such a damned nice idea when it was an idea.
It's not just the embarrassment of tears. That's part of it, no doubt, but what embarrasses me much more, and always will, is the paralysis that took my heart. A moral freeze: I couldn't decide, I couldn't act, I couldn't comport myself with even a pretense of modest human dignity.