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The police have asked for my help. There's been a murder. A murder! Oh, my. Let me just change my shoes, Evie said excitedly. It won't be a minute.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Shoes
Asked
Minutes
Help
Excitedly
Helping
Evie
Change
Minute
Murder
Police

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I don't know. Sometimes, I feel nothing, and I'm so afraid. Afraid I'll stop feeling anything at all. I'll just slip away inside myself...I just need to feel something A Great and Terrible Beauty, Page 177, by
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Taylor clapped for attention. “Miss New Mexico, let’s not get all down in the bummer basement where the creepy things live. There are people in heathen China who don’t even have airline trays. We have a lot to be grateful for.
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I wish to live for myself. I should never want to be trapped.
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Why does everyone want to own me? Pippa mumbles. She's got her head in her hands. Why do they all want to control my life -- how I look, whom I see, what I do or don't do? Why can't they just let me alone? Because you're beautiful, Ann answers, watching the fire lick her palm. People always think they can own beautiful things.
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Around us the night creatures have their say. We are surrounded by a symphony of crickets and frogs. Neither of us feels the need to speak, and I suppose that is one of the qualities I find comforting in Kartik. We can be alone together.
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They see her differently now, as somebody. And isn't that what everyone wants? To be seen?
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People have a habit of inventing fictions they will believe wholeheartedly in order to ignore the truth they cannot accept.
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There is nothing more terrifying than the absoluteness of one who believes he's right.
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Oh, I didn't think it wise to hide it. Might not be able to find it again, I say, cheerily. It's sitting in plain view on your chair in the great hall. I do hope that was the best place for it.
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...because really, sometimes the irony gods just get drunk.
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Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.
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On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.
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All the small, simple, conscious acts of living a sudden defense against the dying we do every day.
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And just as I begin to believe that all is well, there is some subtle change in the light. The room takes its true shape. I fight to go back to that blissful ignorance, but it is too late. The dull pain of truth weights my soul, pulling it under. I am left hopelessly awake.
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