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But her body when tipsy has a brittleness, an unconnectedness, that feels disagreeable in his arms.
The thing is play them until just a touch. You can tell: their skin under the fur gets all loose like a puppy’s neck.
Everybody who tells you how to act has whisky on their breath.
There is this quality, in things, of the right way seeming wrong at first.
Figure out where you’re going before you go there: it misses the whole point and yet there is always the chance that, little as it says, it says it.
The more he tells, the more he loses. He’s safe inside his own skin, he doesn’t want to come out. This guy’s whole game is to get him out into the open where he can be manipulated.
He used to call himself a Darwinian Deist.
My father would say he didn’t want to bore his children the way he had been bored with God and anyway what was the good of worshipping a jungle god in the living room?
“Of course, all vagrants think they’re on a quest. At least at first.”
“It’s the strange thing about you mystics, how often your little ecstasies wear a skirt.”
That was the thing about him, he just lived in his skin and didn’t give a thought to the consequences of anything.
“If Gott wants to end misery He’ll declare the Kingdom now.”
From just the thickness of her neck he figures her for a good solid piece: haunchy. Big above the knee. He does like women big above the knee.
What, exactly, is "big above the knee?"
