Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.
The world's a hard place, Danny. It don't care. It don't hate you and me, but it don't love us, either. Terrible things happen in the world, and they're things no one can explain. Good people die in bad, painful ways and leave the folks that love them all alone. Sometimes it seems like it's only the bad people who stay healthy and prosper. The world don't love you, but your momma does and so do I.
and so will the world end, I think, a victim of love rather than hate. For love's ever been the more destructive weapon, sure.
Every man or woman who loves Him, they hate Him too, because He's a hard God, a jealous God.
Twas something else. I had come to hate her, you see. I had come to wish her dead, and that was what held me back.
These self-appointed deacons in the Church of Latter-Day American Literature seem to regard generosity (of words) with suspicion, texture with dislike, and any broad literary stroke with outright hate. The result is a strange and arid literary climate where a meaningless little fingernail paring like Nicholson Baker's Vox becomes an object of fascinated debate and dissection, and a truly ambitious American novel like Matthew's Heart of the Country is all but ignored.
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