More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Loving an animal, a horse, cat, or dog, was always a romantic tragedy. It meant loving something that would die before you. Like that movie with Ali MacGraw. There was no future, just the affection of the present moment. You didn’t expect a big payoff, someday.
“The first rule of Flunk Klub,” Aardvark said, “is you don’t talk about Flunk Klub.”
To be a boy without a father is to grow guns in place of arms and a loaded cannon for a mouth. Always, at all times to be under siege with no reinforcements. To sprint at full speed into the pitch dark with fury trumping your fear, not aware that what you actually want is to hit a brick wall, or stumble into a pit, to find some limits, some restrictions and discipline. A broken leg. A concussion. Punishment from a surrogate father, even if that father is merely physics, to slap you down and make you toe some ultimate line.
She did this without apology. She did it so easily I started to wonder if it wasn’t a new kind of massage. She’d sneeze again. Without missing a beat she’d just rub the next sneeze into my skin. It must’ve saved her a fortune on oil.
