No man ever truly possesses a woman, anyhow, said Gidas moodily. He has her body for a time if hes lucky, but only the most fleeting glimpse into her soul. Gidas was a poet, or wanted to be.
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The privacy of pride.
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She had been a solitary child, and then solitary as a woman, drawn into an orbit of her own that took her away from others, even those who would be her friends.
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A hand fought best when it made a fist.
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It can be hard to write a skillfully entertaining fiction, but a great book wants to be more, and wants more from us.
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Ambitions and dreams put you at a drinking table with unexpected companions. Cups were filled and refilled, making you drunk with the illusion of changing the world.
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When you didnt say a lot, he thought, you said the important things.
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It had taken skill, tact, an ability to choose friends well, and a great deal of luck... Luck was always part of it, one way or another
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We are all shaped by where we grow up, though that shaping takes different forms. I dont think theres any doubt that coming of age in Winnipeg both opened my eyes and made me hungry - if I can subvert all claims to be a real writer by mixing metaphors like that.
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