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Listening to Annie was like listening to a song played in the wrong key.
The capsules in her hand were the tide. She was the moon, and she had brought the tide which would cover the pilings.
Over the years Paul had grown more and more resigned to the fact that he could not read stories as he had when he was a kid; by becoming a writer of them himself, he had condemned himself to a life of dissection.
A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is that ability to remember the story of every scar. Art consists of the persistence of memory.
In the dark he thought with his skin.
The reason authors almost always put a dedication on a book, Annie, is because their selfishness even horrifies themselves in the end.
