Bokelskere.no

I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun.

I know the heartbeat of his mother.

and i wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger coaxes the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.

Like Pacman in the eighties,
she swallows my ghosts.

After all, no matter how long you live, there aren't too many really delicious moments along the way, since most of life is spent eating and sleeping and waiting for something to happen that never does. You can figure it up for yourself, using your own life as the scoreboard. Most of living is waiting to live.

You hear and read about legs. But when you see the really good ones, you know the things you read and heard were a lot of trash.

My biggest fear about the apocalypse isn't being eaten by cannibals—it's the fact that in every other postapocalyptic movie you see someone with an acoustic guitar by the campfire.

Love was the most susceptible to random failure of all human enterprises.

Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.

I am talking about evil.

It blooms.
It eats.
It grins.

You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?

He'd been born in east Texas in eighteen sixty-seven and come out to this country as a young man. In his time the country had gone from the oil lamp and the horse and buggy to jet planes and the atomic bomb but that wasnt what confused him. It was the fact that his daughter was dead that he couldnt get the hang of.

You cannot stare evil in the face; it has no face. It has no body, no bones, no blood. Any attempt to describe it ends in glibness and self-delusion.

Long views depressed Parker. You look out into space like that and you begin to feel as if someone were after you, the navy or the government or religion.

Jewish food was something you only got to know when, after hating it your entire childhood and thinking everything from the horse-radish on the gefilte fish to the no desserts were without sympathy to the human condition, you find yourself alone and cold in a strange place and suddenly discover that you have to have kasha or you'll shrivel up and die.

When I was 5 my father presented me with my "first" violin (implying there would be more as I got bigger). There was nothing I could do, I was trapped. But I was a resourceful child and have always known there was a way you could get free of torture and quite by accident it turned out that I couldn't tune the instrument. I couldn't tell when it was out of tune. I'd practice out of tune. I drove my father crazy (what he was doing to me too), so that was the end of that. I remained culturally deprived of the violin my whole life.

Two of my chilldhood friends have married men I think are complete dullards. One of them I might even describe as a lout. This husband, drunk at their Christmas party, said that he'd always wondered if I was a lesbian, but that I must not be because a lesbian couldn't possibly look that good in black velvet. I told him that he didn't know much about lesbians then.

My sin is poetizing. Can you tell?