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In order to avoid her death, her particular death, with wrung neck and swollen tongue, she must marry the hangman.
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She must transform his hands so they will be willing to twist the rope around throats that have been singled out as hers was, throats other than hers. She must marry the hangman or no one, but that is not so bad. Who else is there to marry?
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When you hear me singing you get the rifle down and the flashlight, aiming for my brain, but you always miss and when you set out the poison I piss on it to warn the others.
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A movie about the past is not the same as the past.
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By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, I believe you're there, I believe you into being. Because I'm telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are.
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A lot of people facing fascism didn’t become fascists. I don’t happen to believe that we are all monsters.
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Another belief of mine: that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.
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My friends, who are both women, tell me their stories, which cannot be believed and which are true. They are horror stories and they have not happened to me, they have not yet happened to me, they have happened to me but we are detached, we watch our unbelief with horror.
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Confess: it’s my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary.
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A divorce is like an amputation; you survive, but there’s less of you.
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The sitting room is subdued, symmetrical; it’s one of the shapes money takes when it freezes.
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I am the horizon you ride towards, the thing you can never lasso I am also what surrounds you: my brain scattered with your tincans, bones, empty shells, the litter of your invasions. I am the space you desecrate as you pass through.
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You can think clearly only with your clothes on.