What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves -- our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.
There's something to be said for hunger: at least it lets you know you're still alive.
He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it's the same kind of hunger.
...and nostalgia swept through Jimmy like a sudden hunger.
Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.
Hunger is a powerful reorganizer of the conscience.
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