“Don’t you hear it? She asked & I shook my head no & then she started to dance & suddenly there was music everywhere & it went on for a very long time & when I finally found words all I could say was thank you. ”
“I will not be quoting Hemingway anytime soon, nor will I ever read another one of his books.
And if he were still alive, I would write him a letter right now and threaten to strangle him dead with my bare hands just for being so glum.
No wonder he put a gun to his head, like it says in the introductory essay.”
“I figured out why you and me get along so well. You know more than you say and I say more than I know. That means we’re a perfect match, as long as we don’t hang around one another more than an hour at a stretch.”
“There was more to say, but for once we did not say it. There would be other times for speaking, tonight and tomorrow and all the days after that. He let go of my hand.”
“Pete Briggs pats his big pink pigs all day,
(Don’t ask me why, I cannot say)
Then Pete puts his patted pigs aways
in his Pete Briggs’ Pink Pigs Big Pigs Pigpen.”
“He grinned. “How can I say I love you for your mind, after everything I’ve just said? But I do.”
It was the first time he’d used the word love, and it sobered me, a bit. ”
But what on earth’s the good of being pierced by an article about a Community Sing, or the latest improvement in scent organs? Besides, can you make words really piercing--you know, like the very hardest X-rays--when you’re writing about that sort of thing? Can you say something about nothing?
He would have liked to say something about solitude, about night, about the mesa lying pale under the moon, about the precipice, the plunge into shadowy darkness, about death. He would have liked to speak; but there were no words. Not even in Shakespeare.