A Paradox, the doughnut hole. Empty space, once, but now they've learned to market even that. A minus quantity; nothing, rendered edible. I wondered if they might be used-metaphorically, of course-to demonstrate the existence of God. Does naming a sp...
With the new technology that keeps entering the media, film composers are constantly being placed in new learning situations. Acknowledging this and realizing that one must keep up, I maintain, nonetheless, that the real creative power is in the mind...
In my ten years of teaching I’ve noticed that teachers tend to have a bad habit of talking to themselves. I hypothesize that this is because we talk for a living, and we feel safe speaking our feelings aloud. Or it could be that most of us, especia...
Oh, Blimey O'Riley's pantyhose....What is the point of Shakespeare? I know he is a genius and so on, but he does rave on. 'What light doth through yonder window break?' It's the bloody moon, for God sake, Will, get a grip!
I know great art when someone doesn’t wash their hands after making it. And not only did Duchamp not wash his hands, but he didn’t even flush!
A mafia don could snap his fingers and somebody would snap my neck. But when I snap my fingers, people start dancing. Or at least my clones would.
Nearly all of the men I admire are dead, because admiration is fueled by mystery. And what's more mysterious than death? Nothing. Well, besides women, of course.
Not only do I not believe in not believing in God, I’m also a big supporter of crutches, canes, walkers, and anything that helps support man through difficult times.
If silence is the admission of guilt, then she must be really guilty, because last night I asked her a question and instead of answering, she went to sleep for eight hours.
I nodded very slowly. “You’re right. Everyone knows my weakness. It’s not really a secret. But what most don’t get is that she’s also what keeps me strong. She’s what keeps me fighting. I’ve killed for her and I’ll do it again. In a h...
Mineral cactai, quicksilver lizards in the adobe walls, the bird that punctures space, thirst, tedium, clouds of dust, impalpable epiphanies of wind. The pines taught me to talk to myself. In that garden I learnedto send myself off. Later there were ...
The feeling of his lips on my skin and his hand just below my breasts sent shivers through my body. I ran my hands through his soft hair, slipping in a kiss as he ran his tongue up my neck. His lips met mine again.
My nightly craft is winged in white, a dragon of night dark sea. Swift born, dream bound and rudderless, her captain and crew are me. We've sailed a hundred sleeping tides where no seaman's ever been And only my white-winged craft and I know the wond...
There is yet another reason why I cannot, nor wish to, believe in God: the fairy tale about him is not really mine, it belongs to strangers, to all men; it is soaked through by the evil-smelling effluvia of millions of other souls that have spun abou...
My daughter breaks both her wrists jumping off of a swing. Her friend, who is five, told her to jump off of it. I promise nothing will happen, she said. But why did she promise that? she wails later at the hospital.
It seemed to me an odd view to take - rather as if one should protest that one didn't LIKE the idea of dying or being born. I preferred the notion of finding out first how it would be, and then doing what one could about the parts of it one disliked ...
Eric called Al's suicide brave, and he was wrong. My mother's death was brave. I remember how calm she was, how determined. It isn't just brave that she died for me; it is brave that she did it without announcing it, without hesitation, and without a...
Apparently unaffected, she rose. "Yeah, you're probably right. I should be going." She feigned a yawn. "You've gotta head back to work and I've gotta head to jail. Big night for me. I'm planning to shiv someone for a bar of soap. --
I had two cups of coffee, put Eric's jeans in the washer, read a romance for awhile, and studied my brand-new Word of the Day calendar, a Christmas gift from Arlene. My first word of the New Year was 'exsanguinate.' This was probably not a good omen.
A few days after we came home from the hospital, I sent a letter to a friend, including a photo of my son and some first impressions of fatherhood. He responded, simply, 'Everything is possible again.' It was the perfect thing to write because that w...
Tesla,” the vicar mused. “That’s a foreign name, is it not? Hungarian, is it?” “Serbian,” I corrected him. “I’m afraid the ——shire Teslas are a scant three centuries in these parts, having constructed Tesla Hall in the reign of Qu...
