#sentence

Indian summer is like a woman. ↗

— Grace Metalious

#opening-lines #simile #simile

Harry was bleeding. ↗

— J.K. Rowling

#death

All the June Saturday afternoon Sam Pollit's children were on the lookout for him as they skated round the dirt sidewalks and seamed old asphalt of R Street and Reservoir Road that bounded the deep-grassed acres of Tohoga House, their home. ↗

— Christina Stead

#home

Each letter of the alphabet is a steadfast loyal soldier in a great army of words, sentences, paragraphs, and stories. One letter falls, and the entire language falters. ↗

— Vera Nazarian

#grammar #language #languages #letter #literacy

One truth is the swing of the sentence, the beat and poise, but down deeper it's the integrity of the writer as he matches with the language. ↗

— Don DeLillo

#deeper #down #integrity #language #matches

It has taken me years of struggle, hard work and research to learn to make one simple gesture, and I know enough about the art of writing to realize that it would take as many years of concentrated effort to write one simple, beautiful sentence. ↗

— Isadora Duncan

#art #beautiful #concentrated #effort #enough

The moment that I realized my name was going to be said in the same sentence as children and sex, that's really intense. That's something I knew from that very moment, whatever happens past that point, something's out there in the air that is really bad. ↗

— Paul Reubens

#bad #children #going #happens #i

Twelve years after Robin's death, no one knew any more about how he had ended up hanged from a tree in his own yard than they had on the day it happened. ↗

— Donna Tartt

#death

I mean people just have a way of - y'know they'll review your record in two sentences and put you in this little stupid box that you don't want to be in. ↗

— Elliott Smith

#i #just #know #little #mean

Awakened by a thousand dogs, a passing truck, the tailspin of a poisoned mosquito (or, perhaps, merely the silence of my dreams), I had, before remembering who and where I was, seen only that green sun suspended in the firmament of my room (her uterus bottled in preserving fluids) and, through seconds that became millennia, millennia aeons, felt the steadfastness of my orbit around that cold glow of love, a marvelous fatal steadfastness, before my pupils dilated and shadows and unease once more defined reality, the steel box naked but for a mattress and insomnious bugs where I had lived, in a coma of heartbreak and drunkenness, the six months since Primavera's death. ↗

— Richard Calder

#death