You just gotta tell her, man,’ I said. ‘You just gotta say, “Angela, I really like you, but there’s something you need to know: when we go to my house and hook up, we’ll be watched by the twenty-four hundred eyes of twelve hundred black San...
Chuck Parson did not participate in organized sports, because to do so would distract from his larger goal of his life: to one day be convicted of murder
She laughed. ''You seem pretty normal.'' ''You've never seen Ben snort Sprite up his nose and then spit it out of his mouth,'' I said. ''I look like a demented carbonated fountain,'' he deadpanned.
After looking at the bite and seeing that the bleeding has already stopped, she asked, "How was making out with my leg?" "Pretty good," I said, which was true. She leaned her body into mine a little and I could feel her upper arm against my ribs. "I ...
Please stop. I said. You're upsetting the black Santas.
Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will. But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all
But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all. Imagining isn't perfect. You can't get all the way inside someone else. I could never have imagined Margo's anger at being found, or the story she was writing over. But imagining bein...
There are so many people. It is easy to forget how full the world is of people, full to bursting, and each of them imaginable and consistently misimagined.
Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will," she says. The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion of depth, pulling me up. "Yeah, that's true," I say. But then after I think about it for a second, I add,...
if you don't believe,nothing ever happens at all.
It is so hard to leave—until you leave. And then it is the easiest goddamned thing in the world.
The pleasure isn't in doing the thing; the pleasure is in planning it.
And I wanted to tell her that the pleasure for me wasn't planning or doing or leaving; the pleasure was in seeing our strings cross and separate and then come back together.
She loved mysteries so much, that she became one.
I leave, and the leaving is so exhilarating I know I can never go back. But then what? Do I just keep leaving places, and leaving them, and leaving them, tramping a perpetual journey?
My heart is really pounding," I said. "That's how you know you're having fun," Margo said.
The fundamental mistake I had always made - and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make - was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.
A Margo for each of us--and each more mirror than window.
