Quotes from Joe Hill

Ela associava sotaques ingleses a bules de chá cantantes, escolas de bruxaria e à ciência da dedução.

The imagination is our final advantage as a species, a place to safely (and happily) explore experiences that are far from safe and far from happy. "Dracula" and "The Fly" may delight and appall in equal measure, but they also gently prepare us, helping us to think about how we would respond if faced with a terrifying seduction, or a corrupted and infected body.

That's what poetic speech is for--for the things that are true but don't make sense.

Neither disclosed these private discomforts. Each wanted the other to have the illusion that they might pause, anywhere, at any moment, and make love. And while both thought this was highly unlikely—not in this heat, not at this hour—the possibility kept bubbling up, every place they touched. This was the only true protection they'd brought with them as they walked deeper into the blue-gold Mojave.

Jude did not flip them off and then drove for a few blocks feeling good about himself, proud of his restraint. His will, it was like iron.

She had felt good for a few moments, racing across the face of the hill on her old bike, but the happy feeling had burned itself out and left behind a thin, cold rage. She was no longer entirely sure who she was angry with though. Her anger didn't have a fixed point. It was a soft whir of emotion to match the soft whir of the spokes.

her boyfriend when he tells her they are gypsies, two moths drunk on light, darting from the flower of one red sunset to the next; but several times she's dozed off in the passenger seat and awakened from traitorous dreams of her old bedroom, soft pillows.

I wouldn't underrate the power of regret. It doesn't feel good... But it's hard to learn anything important without it.

The sound of an English accent distracted her and lifted her spirits. She associated English accents with singing teapots, schools for witchcraft, and the science of deduction.

After dinner Andy drives drowsily, weaving slightly. Sand, sand, sand—all that pulverized time. Eons ago the world's burst hourglass spilled its contents here; now the years pile and spin, waiting with inhuman patience to be swept into some future ocean. Sand washes right up to the paved road, washes over to the other side in a solid orange current, illuminated by their headlights.

Repulsion masks attraction

Ancient religions used to tell people that letting go of yearning is the highest form of spirituality. But Buddha had it wrong. Yearning is the difference between being human and being a Clockwork. Not to want is not to live. Even DNA is an engine of desire--driven to copy itself over and over.

Without understanding exactly how the trap got sprung, he can feel its teeth in him.

the plant that is the park's namesake. The Joshua trees look hilariously alien. Like Satan's telephone poles. They're primitive, irregularly limbed, their branches swooning up and down, sparsely covered with syringe-thin leaves—more like spines, Angie notes. Some mature trees have held their insane poses for a thousand years; they look as if they were on drugs and hallucinating themselves.

But other creatures of the desert do seem to apprehend what is happening. Through the crosshairs of its huge pupils, a tarantula watches Angie's skin drink in the danger: the pollen from the Joshua mixes with the red blood on her finger. On a fuchsia ledge of limestone, a dozen lizards witness the Leap. They shut their gluey eyes as one, sealing their lucent bodies from contagion, inter-kingdom corruption.

His own eyes prickle wetly. His blond hair darkens with sweat; pearls of water stand out on his smooth six-year-old forehead. The longer he stares back, the wider the gaze seems to get, like a grin. Her eyes radiate hard spines of heat, which drill into him. Timmy Babson feels punctured, "seen." "Jane!" Timmy screams for his mother, calling for her by her first name for the first time. "Jane, Jane! It's looking

The truth is always more scary than kissing someone for the first time.

Then something explodes behind her eyelids into a radial green fan, dazzling her with pain. Her neck aches, her abdomen. The pain moves lower. It feels as if an umbrella were opening below her navel. Menstrual cramps, she thinks. Seconds later, as with a soldering iron, an acute and narrowly focused heat climbs her spine.

The signal from Radio Adulthood was sharpening by then, making its way through the usual static of adolescence.

I can Leap back, the plant thinks. Angie can no longer see what she is doing. Her eyes are shut, her thoughts have stopped. One small hand rests on Andy's neck; the other fist withdraws until the knife points earthward. Down, down, down, the invader demands. Something sighs sharply, and it might be Andy or it might be the entire forest. Leap, Leap, Leap, the Joshua implores.

At times, my brother made me think of one of those tapered, horned conch shells, with a glossy pink interior curving away and out of sight into some tightly wound inner mystery. You could hold your ear to such a shell and imagine you heard the depths of a vast roaring ocean—but it was really just a trick of acoustics.

Angie has never had sticking power. She dropped out of high school; she walked out of the GED exam. Her longest relationship, prior to falling for Andy, was seven months. But then they'd met (no epic tale there—the game was on at a hometown bar), and something in her character was spontaneously altered.

wondering how evil had come into the world or what happens to a person after he dies: an interesting philosophical exercise, but also curiously pointless, since evil and death happened, regardless of the why and the how and the what-it-meant.

When you had a set of wheels that could take you anywhere, you didn't walk away from it.