"There's one," she said.
"Where?" she said. "I don't believe you."
"Right over there," she insisted. "Look at him."
She looked. "Well," she said after a moment, "I suppose you're right."
"It was a little difficult to find him," she said.
"A little," she agreed.
"But the important thing is that we found him."
"We sure did," she said.
-
A Good Man Is Hard To Find
, Flannery O'Connor
#neckweardontcare
For flaunting your scarves, subtly.
#aurevoirdontcare
For when you’re saying goodbye to someone you didn’t really like anyway and also you don’t really remember much about French pronunciation.
#bartletpeardontcare
For when you’re starting to eat healthier but don’t want to seem braggy.
You are a fool if you believe there is more than one man named Jonathan. There is one Jonathan living at the earth's core, with many appendages.
Jason Schwartzman is not
named
Jonathan, but he
is
a Jonathan; you know this to be true
Name:
Mary Lennox, once-bratty orphan who has rather improved in her demeanor
Location:
Yorkshire, England, where the wind is always wutherin’
Size:
Unknown, as owner Mr. Archibald Craven spends most of his time wandering the earth in a vain attempt to escape his sorrows
In case you're not familiar with the parable of the Prodigal Son, I'll give you the bare outline: A man has two sons, one of whom goes to his father, demands his inheritance, sails off and squanders every penny getting drunk with idiots.
If Justin Bieber were my son, I would have a Cobb salad for lunch every day, and a big goblet of iced tea beside it. If the tea were sweetened or flavored in any way, I would send it back. I would never drink tap water.
If Justin Bieber were my son, I would say, "Well, then, maybe I need to speak to your manager" at least once a day.
Brooks was a remarkable poet in countless ways, but this ability to create a world on the page is perhaps the most singular. If she wrote fiction, we’d say she was brilliant at world-building--but the world she builds is the real one, the part that didn’t used to make it into the pages of literary magazines. Not just Chicago: Bronzeville.
What I remember: buying a ticket to Hebden Bridge on the train, certain that the conductor would judge me as another American Plath girl if I asked for Heptonstall. The tough climb uphill to the churchyard. The sweeping view across the moors on that bright summer’s day.
"Hey, Mallory, have you been A LITTLE phoning it in this last week, occasionally just posting links to interviews you have done while in New Zealand?" Honestly yes! I should probably have taken a week off to go do that conference, but I didn't, and this is the absolute best I can do for right now.
How did we do? Did the product meet and/or exceed your expectations? Did it arrive with speed and alacrity that put you in mind of the wing-footed Mercury? Did our customer service personnel manage to evoke your first-grade teacher, Mrs. Pugel, the one with the golden hair, who looked deep into your eyes when you spoke and truly
cared
?
