Earl passed the tryouts for Talent Night mainly because he still limped from his accident, and because he had grown taller and skinnier than ever lying around in casts. The drama teacher, Mrs. Falkes, watched him making tortured faces, strumming dolefully on a guitar equipped with button mike, and pitied him, for even his glasses looked the wrong size.

It was something. Out of nowhere, I didn’t give a shit about anything for like a month. Like nothing. 

I was standing on the slick concrete floor of the barn hall, smoking a cigarette, waiting for Clement. It was four-thirty in the morning, and the dew on the roadside grass leading to the barn sparkled in the moonlight.

On the edge of the leaf a line of light, of yellow light born over the green escaped over the side catch it with a finger and then a hand he brought it up to his eye and put it through, bouncing on the ground the uneven road cracked the direction and he followed into the garden transparent and shiny to the sun.

Was that the moon? None of my business. And anyway I’m myopic. Third grade. I remember. Things growing dim. Chalk lines fading like runic characters. The fluorescence. My classmates’ faces glowing,

As she enters, it all but caresses her, the oval mirror, the luminous, tightly drawn curtains, and her shadow, an anonymous lady-in-waiting who brushes the snow from her heartshaped fur collar.

“Listen,” Trudy Kay had Ettie Savage on the telephone and she was breathing somewhat more forcefully than normal. “About your living room. You’ll remember I was talking to you the other day. I want you to know

For what our friend Madame de Rocattefours, herself gaining all simplicities with age, calculated to be almost a month, the cat had been languishing; as the days flooded with spring and nervously passed it took pleasure in sitting to watch the light stream through the bank of laced windows, its nostrils flaring and acquiescing. 

I enter first through a stable, vast and dim where one barely sees in particular three rather big goats then a number of rough wood objects Rembrandt-brown: I find there a kind of wooden stairway by which

There is much to say about soap. Precisely everything that it tells about itself until the complete disappearance, the exhaustion of the subject. This is just the object suited to me.