Status Updates From Amazons: An Intimate Memoir...

The Old South was one thing. The Middle Ages were another.

‘Isn’t it excruciating?’ [she] said. ‘They pile shit upon shit. It becomes an art form of its own. A pyramid of shit. An Uffizi Gallery of shit. The Museum of Modern Shit. Astonishing that we need these shit sabbaticals in order to become viable again.’

I was feeling practically drugged from all that French.

With a sick man, you don’t split hairs. You give a sick man the benefit of the doubt. He needs that leeway or he’s liable to crack. You don’t use logic or common sense on a sick man. There’s only one way to treat him—like a child. You let him have his way every time.

This is the second straight chapter that ends with sex and intimate lighting. […] Not that there isn’t something right about a chapter that ends with sex. There is something right. Sex is the thing that nothing can follow. It asks for blank space. We wish for a silence that will last at least for the turning of a page.

I don’t know how to describe this other than “like a woody Allen movie”

At: I wore