If you had really loved something, wouldn’t a little bit of it always linger? — Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief (Random House, 1998)
Autumns reward western Kansas for the evils that the remaining seasons impose: winter’s rough Colorado winds and hip-high, sheep-slaughtering snows; the slushes and the strange land fogs of spring; and summer, when even crows seek the puny shade, and the tawny infinitude of wheatstalks bristle, blaze. At last, after September, another weather arrives, an Indian… Continue reading Truman Capote
You exist in a half-world suspended between two superstructures, one self-expression and the other self-destruction. — Truman Capote, In Cold Blood (Random House, 1965)
The wind is us – it gathers and remembers all our voices, then sends them talking and telling through the leaves and the fields. — Truman Capote, Truman Capote and the Legacy of “In Cold Blood,” by Ralph F. Voss. (University Alabama Press; 3rd ed. edition March 15, 2015) Originally published January 1st 2011.
Loneliness is not being alone, it’s loving others to no avail. — John Berendt, The City of Falling Angels. (Penguin Books; First Edition edition September 26, 2006)