Quotes by Sherman Alexie

Mick had once come across one of Wilsont books and was surprised to see his face on the back cover. Mick was even more surprised when he read the book. It was pretty good, although Mick was kind of tired of hearing about Indians. Still, Mick thought, Aristotle Little Hawk was a good Indian, even if he was just some character in a book. He wished more Indians like Little Hawk hung out in the bar. He knew Wilson claimed he had some Indian blood, said so inside the book. But Mick did not buy that shit. Micks great-grandmother was a little bit Indian, but that did not make him Indian. Besides, who the hell would want to be Indian when you could just as easily be white?

I learned how to stop crying.I learned how to hide inside of myself.I learned how to be somebody else.I learned how to be cold and numb.

...And nostalgia is a cancer. Nostalgia will fill your heart up with tumors. Yeah, yeah, yeah, thats what you are. Youre just an old fart dying of terminal nostalgia.

Gay people were seen as magical, too. I mean, like in many cultures, men were viewed as warriors and women were viewed as caregivers. But gay people, being both male and female, were seen as both warriors and caregivers. Gay people could do anything. They were like Swiss Army knives!

Im dying from about ninety-nine kinds of shame

I didn’t yet know that romantic heroes—famous and not—are usually aimless nomads in disguise.

Because I want to be remembered.

He was my best friend and I needed him.

Corliss wondered what happens to a book that sits unread on a library shelf for thirty years. Can a book rightfully be called a book if it never gets read?...How many books never get checked out, Corliss asked the librarian. Most of them, she said.Corliss never once considered the fate of library books. She loved books. How could she not worry about the unread? She felt like a disorganized scholar, an abusive mother, and a cowardly soldier.Are you serious? Corliss asked. What are we talking about here? If you were guessing, what is the percentage of books in this library that never get checked out? Were talking sixty percent of them. Seriously. Maybe seventy percent. And Im being optimistic. Its probably more like eighty or ninety percent. This isnt a library, its an orphanage.The librarian talked in a reverential whisper. Corliss knew shed misjudged this passionate woman. Maybe she dressed poorly, but she was probably great in bed, certainly believed in God and goodness, and kept an illicit collection of overdue library books on her shelves.

All of these white kids and teachers, who were so suspicious of me when I first arrived, had learned to care about me. Maybe some of them even loved me. And Id been so suspicious of them. And now I care about a lot of them. And loved a few of them.

Id only seen Julius play a few times, but he had that gift, that grace, those fingers like a goddamn medicine man. One time, when the tribal school traveled to Spokane to play this white high school team, Julius scored sixty-seven points and the Indians won by forty.I didnt know theyd be riding horses, I heard the coach of the white team say when I was leaving....Hey, I asked Adrian. Remember Silas Sirius?Hell, Adrian said. Do I remember? I was there when he grabbed that defensive rebound, took a step, and flew the length of the court, did a full spin in midair, and then dunked that fucking ball. And I dont mean it looked like he flew, or it was so beautiful it was almost like he flew. I mean, he flew, period.I laughed, slapped my legs, and knew that I believed Adrians story more as it sounded less true.Shit, he continued. And he didnt grow no wings. He just kicked his legs a little. Held that ball like a baby in his hand. And he was smiling. Really. Smiling when he flew. Smiling when he dunked it, smiling when he walked off the court and never came back. Hell, he was still smiling ten years after that.

Last night I missed two free throws which would have won the game against the best team in the state. The farm town high school I play for is nicknamed the Indians, and Im probably the only actual Indian ever to play for a team with such a mascot.This morning I pick up the sports page and read the headline: INDIANS LOSE AGAIN.Go ahead and tell me none of this is supposed to hurt me very much.

When my female friends are leftBy horrid spouses and lovers,I commiserate. I send gifts-Powwow songs and poems- and wonderWhy my gorgeous friends cannot findSomeone who knows them as I do.Is the whole world dead and blind?I tell my friends, “I’d marry youTomorrow.” I think I’m engagedTo thirty-six women, my harem:Platonic, bookish, and enraged.I love them! But it would scare them-No, of course, they already knowThat I can be just one more boy,A toy warrior who explodesInto silence and warpaths with joy.

Gordie, the white boy genius, gave me this book by a Russian dude named Tolstoy, who wrote, Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Well, I hate to argue with a Russian genius, but Tolstoy didnt know Indians, and he didnt know that all Indian families are unhappy for the same exact reasons: the frikkin booze.

Like the coffin was settling down for a long, long nap, for a forever nap.

So I draw because I feel like it might be my only real chance to escape the reservation.

But how can I get enough experience if they dont give me a chance to get experience?

But despite the fact that Reardan is a tiny town, people can still be strangers to each other.

Lies have short shelf lives. Lies go bad. Lies rot and stink up the joint.

I hoped and prayed that they would someday forgive me for leaving them. I hoped and prayed that I would someday forgive myself for leaving them.