Narrative Becomes The Way You

Which Would Be Worse - To Live As A Monster, Or To Die As A Good Man?

Grief, I Swear To God, Doesn't Live In The Heart. It Lives In The Senses. And Sometimes, All I Want To Do Is Cut Off My Nose So I Can't Smell Her, Hack My Fingers Off At The Joint.

He Wondered If This Was What Clinical Depression Felt Like, A Total Numbness, A Weary Lack Of Hope.

I Can't Remember Coming Across A More Precise Evocation Of Innocence Lost Since Golding's The Lord Of The Flies. With The Death Of Sweet Mister, Daniel Woodrell Has Written His Masterpiece-spare, Dark, And Incandescently Beautiful. It Broke My Heart.

Charm Was The Luxury Of Those Who Still Believed In The Essential Rightness Of Things. In Purity And Picket Fences.