The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.
Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in east-central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.
My sharpest memory is of a single instant surrounded by dark.
This book is totally true, except for the parts that aren’t. It’s basically like Little House on the Prairie but with more cursing.
Mister Haneda was senior to Mister Omochi, who was senior to Mister Saito, who was senior to Miss Mori, who was senior to me. I was senior to no one.
When my friend Don suggested we go on a trip to the South Seas together, and offered to pay for the whole thing, I thought, Fine, but what’s in it for me?
Writing is the most solitary of arts. The very act of withdrawing from the world in order to create a counter-world that is “fictitious” — “metaphorical” — is so curious, it eludes comprehension.
To say that I met Nicholas Brisbane over my husband’s dead body is not entirely accurate. Edward, it should be noted, was still twitching upon the floor.
The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.
From 1998 to 2008, I had this wild experience of starting a little hobby, accidentally growing it into a big business, and then selling it for $22 million. So now people want to hear my thoughts.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.
I need to write an introduction for my book.
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