Prose Quotes
Once in a while, he worries, but about what? Like the scattered clouds that drift over farmland in the afternoon, that sort of anxiety is what, ultimately?
Pram wasn't told the story of her birth. But even as a very small girl, she felt deep in her chest that she was alive and dead at the same time.
Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much ofwhat I love in that face.
hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match, we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.
from the prose poem "The Universe Thrums on regardless" in my book SPAN.We are almost nothing in the night. Reduced to warm blobs and the sound of breathing. There is comfort in that.
I should have bailed. That little voice had my back. That little voice is older than I am. It's older than the oldest person who ever lived. I should have listened to that voice.
Stone gnomes and angels filled the gardens, and it seemed that they were also sleeping, as though a witch had cast a spell on them.
What a face this girl possessed!—could I not gaze at it every day I would need to recreate it through painting, sculpture, or fatherhood until a second such face is born.
He attempted to bark the order and succeeded, albeit with more of a chihuahua result than intended.
An author never lies. We do, however tend to speak in a fictional prose.
From her perch more than a kilometer aboveground, she surveys the city that never sleeps, glittering and coruscating in the rain like a metaphor for her glamorous life.
She tried to focus on the element of riddle or at least puzzle contained in the letter and ignore the sense of doom that was sweeping through her like clouds rolling to the shore over open water.
Some can't handle the fiery poet, how she rips into souls burning words into prose.
He took me down and out into the afterlife of the brightly lit streets, a haze of rain around each streetlight like a galaxy, the whole street a universe spread out like a banquet.
The rain turns lighter, turns to snow. And I have a sense that we have not yet arrived, that we are still reaching. For each other. For who we are meant to be.
I’ll give you one chance to run, but may your shoulder always whisper in your ear…“It’s best to watch out for men, like me.
Fracture lines etch the surface of the glass box as if a body fell from the sky and landed on it. He doesn't hear the impact, can't smell the blood.
The skyscrapers of the city had finished scraping all the sky away, and the clouds overhead were exactly the color of concrete and I was safe and cold in a canyon of glass and steel.
Somewhere deep inside, his humanity had been shaken by something so unnatural, so foreign in its essence, his very being withdrew from it...
I can't allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.
She had married him in order to be safe from the chaos. He had married her, she now understood, for the same reason. They were the last two people on earth who could make anyone safe from anything.
Rain woke him, a slow drizzle, his feet tangled in coils of discarded fiberoptics. The arcade's sea of sound washed over him, receded, returned. Rolling over, he sat up and held his head.
As his dark closet shows, Bluebeard was a collector at heart, and even after dispatching a wife, could not let her fully depart.
Closer, it’s all right. Touch the man of grief.Do. Don’t be afraid. My troubles are mine and I am the only man alive who can sustain them.
As she gobbled up the miles, big ravines appeared before her, their starving mouths open for the swallow.
Iverson glanced down at my white-knuckled grip, then at my eyes. A hint of a smile more subtle than a single flick of snow crossed his face, and his eyes nodded approval.
Oyin Da’s mind is as elegant as a French horn, thoughts moving in whorls and evoking fresh mint leaves.
I have learned that love is often strongest where it is most threatened. Where it is most terrorised is where it most profusely grows.Lillian WhiteI Would Send You Poppies
By degrees, the bitterness at my heart diffused itself to the circumference of the circle in which my life went its cheerless mechanical round.
You'd love a bit of pomp: that way in later years you might invoke end-of-empire ghosts.
Bottom line, when someone defensively says their way of writing is their style, then that usually means they're making an excuse for poor prose.
Gennia is eating and talking to Ruiz on the phone. Each time he takes a mouthful, he catches a whiff of his shirt, which stinks of failure and yesterday.
Mirabelle sat down, dropping into the cushions like a ball being caught in a large leather glove.
Victor was the first to speak, and when he did, it was with an eloquence and composure perfectly befitting the situation
The joyous clamor in my mind drowned out the strange sound outside the car: a humming noise that was gathering speed and growing louder, a roar that was not the waves curling up the beach.
Despite my affection for subtext and plot and prose at its best... life, it turns out, is nothing more than the finer details.
A forced contemplation of the heavens, crisp and angelic blue, a classic prelude to death.
And I howled at that swarm and the crops and the sky, and the stars should have quit because there weren't no reason to be shining.
