Quotes from William Lashner

The meditation, the tatami mats and ceremonial teas, the calm words coming from an apparently calm center were all fronts. What he was really searching for was an emotional desert to call his own.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tasted the emotions before they slipped away.

Who is rich? As the scholar Ben Zoma once said, 'He who is content with his lot.

For what was hope but a liar, preoccupied with the droughts of the past and the harvests of the future while it killed off the present with its bland blandishments?

road," said the outlaw, now sitting across the table from her. His voice was raw and hushed, a thing scarred. "Ginsberg's bar is only one step up from an outhouse, and a short step at that, but it's about the only place I can safely show my face anymore without getting it shot off. I find it has other advantages, too. I migh

I think that money it is the goal of cowards. Money is what you end up wanting if you don't have putz enough to stand up and decide for yourself. Money is what they want you to want so that you will work for them every day of your life and buy what they sell and fill your house and your soul with their junk. It is for those without the courage to decide for themselves.

Men are shits." "All men?" "Maybe I'm being too harsh. There might be a nice guy in Toledo. I'm just talking about the ones I sleep with.

Drinking tea is like kissing your dog. It's warm and wet, sure, but where's the kick? If I need to, I'll just pick up another Venti at the Starbucks and use the bathroom there.

Her cheeriness grates as always, but with Jennifer he senses that it is a true reflection of her inner self and not some act, and that stops him from vomiting his disdain onto her scarf. One doesn't shout at a lame girl for her limp, or upbraid a blind man for his lack of sight. She is entitled to her disability.

the barkeep carrying two beers in heavy glass mugs. He slammed the steins down so that waves of beer sloshed onto the table. Without a word he turned and trudged back to the bar. The outlaw hoisted his mug. "Cheers," he said

said. "Even skunks won't drink this piss. But at least it's warm." The outlaw took another long swallo

it's a characteristic of the species malepenus stupidius.

We'll need more guns." "And some explosives." "And Advil." "Those bastards won't know what hit them once we get the Advil.

IF YOU WANT A DOG TO STOP KISSING YOU, turn your head away silently like another dog. —Jack Kerouac Some of the Dharma

shack first appeared well in the distance, a listing structure marooned by time. It was a mere ghost of what it once had been, and what it once had been was nothing much. She stopped the car, checked her odometer, looked at the building. A single black line ran from the electric wires to the

choke him. They filled him with their trial and

It took her eyes a moment to adjust. The shack was lit by a yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling and the thin light that made its way through the dusted windows. Neon beer signs affixed to the walls flittered noisily on and off, on and off. Behind a makeshift bar, a man, morose and gray, sat motionless

I looked at the jury, raised an eyebrow. I work on that in the mirror at home, the one raised eyebrow. It should be a course of its own in law school. You sort of have to relax one half of your face, contract the muscles on the other, all while keeping a sweetly sardonic expression. You do it wrong, you look like you just ate bad jalapeño. You do it right, it denotes skepticism, it denotes shared knowledge, it was as good as shouting to the jury.

He saw clearly the futility of trying to leave a mark on the shifting planes of reality, like trying to write his name in the foam of an ocean wave.

light of day smashed into the shack's interior. The magazine writer raised a hand to shield her eyes even as she reached for her handbag. When the door slammed shut and the glare died, it took her a long moment to link the man standing before her with the handsome outlaw she had been expecting.

What's the matter?" said the foul old man. "Birdie got your tongue?

But isn't it better to know the truth, no matter how vile?" He lifted up his head and cackled. "Whoever told you such nonsense? One kind lie is worth a thousand truths.

A feast of smooth oblivion.

Nostalgia is a fire fueled by failures of memory.