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The phones worked on them like those bulbous flutes did on cobras.
Everything was so green it was frankly a little crazy. You wanted to eat it: get out of the car, get down on all fours, and bite into the earth itself.
Smoking tethered you to history itself! It was a patriotic act, or once had been, anyway, like owning slaves or killing the Cherokee.
What a marvel, to have a body, a thing that contained you. Vacation was for being returned to your body.
He held up his hands in a gesture that was either conciliatory or said Don’t shoot. By his age, black men were adept at this gesture.
“It’s the right thing to do.” Clay knew this would work; his wife felt it important, not to do the moral thing, necessarily, but to be the kind of person who would. Morality was vanity, in the end.
Ruth had learned only one thing from the current reality, and it was that everything held together by tacit agreement that it would. All it took to unravel something was one party deciding to do just that. There was no real structure to prevent chaos, there was only a collective faith in order.
You never know when a time is the last time, because if you did you could never go on with life.
They were too busy, committed to the notion of their own overcommitment. Could they not spare a few hours for transcendence?
