Category: writing

  • Beautiful sentences

    Once, five of the six younger Boughtons—Jack was elsewhere—played a joyless and determined game of fox and geese in the tender crop of alfalfa, the beautiful alfalfa, so green it was almost blue, so succulent that a mist stood on its tiny leaves even in the middle of the day. Marilynne Robinson, Home.

  • Beautiful sentences

    You have probably heard that we all became janitors, sitting in basements next to boilers reading cheap paperback books of Italian poetry, and never sweep a thing. Yet the world runs fine. Mary Ruefle, “Middle School”

  • Beautiful sentences

                   … I haven’t heard from him and wonder if in every contact there are apologies inherent for feelings hurt and falling out of touch— Michael Morse, “Void and Compensation (Facebook)”

  • Beautiful sentences

         Maybe our own parents will eat us eventually—they may have eaten us already, and the rest of our life is just the process of their digestion. Richard Howard, “A Proposed Curriculum Change.”

  • Beautiful sentences

    In the end, every corpse has the same face: your own. David Bezmogis, The Free World

  • Beautiful sentences

    His cry went on through the final image: the spots of raw bright blood on the earth. Blood on excrement. The supreme moment, high above the desert, when the two elements, blood and excrement, long kept apart, merge. A black star appears, a point of darkness in the night sky’s  clarity. Point of darkness and…

  • Beautiful sentences

    It is not a question of where one writes it, Samuil said. Apostasy is apostasy. It is always between one’s self and one’s soul. David Bezmogis, The Free World.

  • Beautiful Sentences

    It seems as though there might be some place in the world they could have been left alone. Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky.

  • Beautiful sentences

    And sometimes the night wind nudged his feet so that they struck the circle of his priestly garment like dumb clappers in a deaf-and-dumb bell; they seemed to be tolling without evoking a sound. Joseph Roth, The Radetzky March