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Mr. Holt had grown old since Beverly last saw him. He looked weary.

You remind me of lizards birthed in an outhouse by an ogre or a loon.

I grip the handlebar and pin my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable crash.

From the roof, my husband observed daily a man and a woman having sex.

I hope you weren’t reverse-bookmarking everyone.

They drink hard liquor and growl about which musicians are hot.

The consensus was that all the great writers drank way too much.

“I’m not afraid of death; I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”

Gramps’ will was a fifty-year diary, all jammed onto two sheets.

“I suppose there have been a good many men killed in this room.”

The division of the community had become more marked than ever.

The King’s affair was supposed to be a secret. But you know how it is.

He’s got a nice, deep kind of voice. He doesn’t sound redneck at all.

You and me is as good as anybody else, and maybe a damn sight better.

He picked up a fairy disguised as a go-go dancer and brought her home.

Lust was just a frenzy of activity that had mostly led Benny in circles.

Jennifer Egan’s A Visit From the Goon Squad wins Pulitzer Prize.

Recently a man in my town took up residence on the football field.

Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.

Living as the last artist in Manhattan: it’s the ultimate test of commitment.

Hannah Sarvasy

The stupider the president the more power you arrange for him.

Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.

“For the entire time I was there I couldn’t get that out of my head.”

This would not be a wooing meal. I was cooking my man into submission.

There would be no one to live for; she would live for herself.

“The secret to happiness is not wanting,” Lars told the Buddha.

He glowered even as a little child. Maybe because he has your bad eyes.

These adventures taught me that writers are flawed human beings.