His face was heavy, as if little bags of sand had been painlessly sewn into various parts of it, dragging the features away from the bones, if he still had bones in his face. Boy knew from hangovers.
George passed through the ocean with the silent dignity of a torpedo. That George, ladies and gentlemen, is clearly one very fine swimmer in a story written 100 (+ or – 2) years ago.
Sam was in the highest possible feather, and expressed his exultation by all sorts of supernatural howls and ejaculations, by divers odd motions and contortions of his whole system. Now there’s a sentence to cause one to reel backward for a moment and take inventory.
I hate horses is true. First sentence of JC, a future publication from Livingston Press.
The loon’s saner self has signed a contract with Livingston Press to produce JC, the fictional memoir of a ten year old boy describing an eventful year in his life on a Northern California hippie commune/vineyard in the late 1970s.
I am nothing but a corpse, a body at the bottom of a well. The opening sentence of My Name is Red aligns pretty well with William Holden’s voiceover at the opening of Sunset Boulevard.