Quotes from Joe Meno

Slow as your own dubious grace.

Those days were like a crown of gold over her head. Her hair was a knotted nest of some tiny white and yellow flowers with little bluebells wrapped inside her curls. Maybe she'd bring him a sandwich or a bottle of Coca-Cola, all cold and full of beads of ice along the side. Wasn't it all so pretty? Wasn't it all so nice?

What Mr. Albee most desires is for the Model UN, the entire group of them, all eleven, even the scoundrel Quinn, to be there waiting, when he gets home each dreary night, and there again when he awakes in the morning, all of them politely debating one another with their resplendent voices, their hearts—which have not yet been broken by anything more serious than an unrequited crush or an unfair grade—quietly aglow with everything.

I was a shy kid and I was afraid what I said sounded stupid, so I hardly ever said anything. I was the third wheel. Fifth wheel? I was the fucking wheel you didn't really need, but I still hung around. I thought maybe my silence would one day impress somebody. As of yet, it hadn't done much for me.

For years, Thisbe will later think of that one moment in the field as the only time she was ever sure about anything in her life.

This man has the same kind of charm, the kind that suggests weakness, the kind that indicates how sad he will always make her feel. There is something dependable, unfailing in this sort of sadness.

You are saying, I would like to but I could never forgive you or myself. I am saying, if you let me kneel before you once, I can live without forgiveness for a very long time.

Perhaps Effie Mumford was only trying to prove something she already knew: that, like all animals, she was at the whim of the general disorder and unimaginative meanness of the world surrounding her.

If a member of the military can be killed and left in the road, in front of his own house, then who will be safe in this country?

The sky was as dark as it had ever been. Frozen, exhausted, and out of breath, they fumbled forward together once more. In the end, all they had done was cross from one kind of desolation to another.

A fragrance of cold rose petals and copper. Like flowers in your bloody throat.

A place of a king of quiet villainy and secret lust. A place where the dirty dreams of every twelve-year-old man-child were visible on the bus station's bathroom walls in hand-scrawled tattoos of ladies with oversized breasts and inappropriate female genitalia, inaccurately portrayed as a singularly dangerous triangle of doom. Those kinds of drawings set me up for a world of confusion.