EL ALEPH

One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been.

Arthur Jaffa, Love is the Message, the Message is Death

You know – you know instinctively – that none of this is for you. You know this before you are told. And who is it for and who is paying for it? And why isn’t it for you?

How can two media-savvy kids posing as brother and sister, wearing Dr. Seuss clothes, represent blood-and-bones Detroit, a city whose greatest resource is asphalt?

But you, Tierra, forrea I always spoke highly of you Tierra, so I ain’t trying to put that on your back I’on’t wanna put that on your back. Nah you don’t have to be on site with me *bangs chest* you from Detroit bitch, I’m from Memphis. I know we fighting.

You told my husband, that all men should want a wife who makes their master bedroom look like a French whore’s bedroom, when he complained it was too flowery and chandeliered.

The Bright Field, R. S. Thomas

The death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world.

Those of us who fight against power are uncomfortable with exercising it, because we associate power with the abuse of it. Power without love is unjust and domineering, but love without power is sentimental and anemic.

Although the College attracted bright young people, it was considered to be a place for oddballs.

Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries—stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But the trigger for Eduene's temperament is less important than Didion's attempt to engage it from the notebook she received from the woman. A certain predilection for the extreme, what else could reach a person for whom nothing mattered, how else to record events for a woman who doubted anything was worth recording.

Risky, thought Paul D, very risky. For a used-to-be-slave woman to love anything that much was dangerous, especially if it was her children she had settled on to love. The best thing, he knew, was to love just a little bit; everything, just a little bit, so when they broke its back, or shoved it in a croaker sack, well, maybe you'd have a little love left over for the next one.

She never could understand how well-bred persons consented to sing and open their mouths in the ridiculous manor requisite for that vocal exercise.