Tag: quotes

On the morning she was moved to the cemetery, the one where Al Jolson is buried, I enrolled in a ‘Fear of Flying’ class. ‘What is your worst fear?’ the instructor asked, and I answered, ‘That I will finish this course and still be afraid.’

“In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried” by Amy Hempel

On the morning she was moved to the cemetery, the one where Al Jolson is buried, I enrolled in a ‘Fear of Flying’ class. ‘What is your worst fear?’ the instructor asked, and I answered, ‘That I will finish this course and still be afraid.’

“In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson Is Buried” by Amy Hempel

My uncle Sibaso is learning to live without memory, like this spider. He hardly eats. He does not swallow the stars as he used to and takes his rest in the coolness of the house, a pillow held to his belly, a half finished Coca-cola bottle to his side, its mouth sugary, syrupy, black. He keeps a few crumbs in a plate, to feed his ego, he says.

“In Africa There Is a Type of Spider” by Yvonne Vera

My uncle Sibaso is learning to live without memory, like this spider. He hardly eats. He does not swallow the stars as he used to and takes his rest in the coolness of the house, a pillow held to his belly, a half finished Coca-cola bottle to his side, its mouth sugary, syrupy, black. He keeps a few crumbs in a plate, to feed his ego, he says.

“In Africa There Is a Type of Spider” by Yvonne Vera

He turned and began swimming–splashing desperately, rather–toward the beach, and suddenly he was praying to God to save him. He would be good in the future, would obey his parents, would not miss mass on Sunday. Then he remembered having confessed to the Sharpies, “I go to church only to see a young lady,” and he felt a knife-sharp conviction: God was going to punish him, to drown him in those turbid waters that he was frantically beating, waters below which an awful death, and afterward hell perhaps, were waiting for him.

“Sunday” by Mario Vargas Llosa

He turned and began swimming–splashing desperately, rather–toward the beach, and suddenly he was praying to God to save him. He would be good in the future, would obey his parents, would not miss mass on Sunday. Then he remembered having confessed to the Sharpies, “I go to church only to see a young lady,” and he felt a knife-sharp conviction: God was going to punish him, to drown him in those turbid waters that he was frantically beating, waters below which an awful death, and afterward hell perhaps, were waiting for him.

“Sunday” by Mario Vargas Llosa