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I look after those who look after me." He smacks his lips, stares at me, and adds, "I also look after those who don't." - Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
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With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
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I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.
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At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.
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I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.
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I hate this bizarre policy of protective exclusion, because it effectively writes me off the page.
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Even as your body betrays you, your mind denies it.
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Is where you're from the place you're leaving or where you have roots?
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...poking a lump of red Jello that jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.
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It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here
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Sometimes I think if I had to choose between an ear of corn or making love to a woman, I'd choose the corn.
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Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.
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You do right by me, I'll show you a life most suckers can't even dream of.
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I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.
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What else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That’s the reality of getting old, and I guess that’s really the crux of the matter. I’m not ready to be old yet.
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I was always searching, always seeking the next big thing, because that was the thing that was going to make everything all right again. And while I was working toward it, it gave me something to think about other than that thing I couldn't put my finger on. But it always came back.
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Jacob: I've never seen so much manure. Wade: Baggage stock horses. They pack'em in 27 a car. Jacob: how do you stand the smell? Wade: what smell?
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When I first submerged my feet into frigid water, they hurt so badly I yanked them out again. I persisted, dunking them for longer and longer periods, until the cold finally blistered.
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I am ninety. Or ninety-three. One or the other.
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I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-- even the dogs were howling.
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Do you have any idea how much an elephant drinks?
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They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.
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Juliet is one of those rare novels that has it all: lush prose, tightly intertwined parallel narratives, intrigue, and historical detail all set against a backdrop of looming danger. Anne Fortier casts a new light on one of history's greatest stories of passion. I was swept away.
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When will people learn that just because you can make something doesn’t mean you should?