In my adolescence, I dreaded the thought of marriage. No slave state could oppress me as thoroughly as a wife. Marriage was like patriotism; no wonder politicians

Every October Chaim Fogel went to the Bergen-Belsen Survivors’ Banquet at the Plaza or at the Pierre. Naturally, he preferred the Plaza, because of the hors d’oeuvres: avocado appetizers, little cubes with fresh ground pepper on them and an outstanding Italian dressing. 

I almost relish the memory of my mother’s eightieth birthday in the common room of the Winterthur mental hospital, as the nadir of this family’s disintegration. She sat there, curled up into a ball, her greasy ash-blond hair in a ponytail, wearing a pale blue terry-cloth tracksuit. 

Looking through crisscrossings of blackberry vines, Gable could see an early sky in flashing tatters, and he knew the heat knotted thick and wiry outside. Disturbed, he had been watching for rain clouds since the night before, but even now, though it was way past daybreak,

They were not fancy girls, but they did love the absolute best of things, and also appreciated the simple pleasures the earth had to offer: good red dirt, full-fat Coca-Cola.

Until now, I’d hardly believed that they could think, let alone create and then conceal elaborate lies about my life and my character.

In the deep end of the rec lane the old white woman is treading water and talking with the obese black man who should be eight feet tall. A judge has ruled that, according to the length of the man’s leg bones, 

They were touring New England, escaped lovers in mid-June, when the signs sprang up, hand-lettered in red and green on shiny white boards.

The room fills gradually, there are many French entomologists and a few from abroad, among them a Czech in his sixties who people say is some prominent figure in the new regime

This guy, seemingly of mature years, in conservative duds . . . black wool pants, no pills; reversible corduroy jacket; cap, tucked under his arm; clean smell, of soap and coffee . . . he could be a cop