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We agreed: no hearts, no flowers, just courteous, no-strings sex.

I’m just wired hard for hunting, and not so much at all for fishing.

Marie was Indian, and everything Indian required patience.

Silence, a weapon of choice, hung between them, cut through the air.

No author dodged readers who were indifferent to masterpieces.

The first time she’d touched his body, it had been like going back in time.

To get the job, always stay starched, creased to death.

“Happy? Nabokov died yesterday, we all move up a notch.”

She’d do anything once, to know what it was like.

The child writes, Child, and is amazed at this word on the page.

He’s an excellent student. It’s just that . . . he thinks ideas are real.

Everyone roared at her wit. Ravenous children prowled like tigers.

He picked up the knife I had there, and said he’d kill me if ever I told.

The sounds of Africa exploded around the white men and women.

Let those shadows sift the spirits of their children from the silt.

she was right—hurricane being the name of the feeling, the twist of it.

I could throw one of these rocks at the moon and watch it fall.

Who cared about a whiff of male exertion and motor oil? Not Lana.

“You could come, too! No one’s forcing you to go to fucking China.”

I’d done what no woman of my race and social station had ever done.

Barth looked after his students beyond anything expected of him.

One of the most important human capacities is compassion.

Do we hunger after conflict as much as we hunger after justice?

It was the day I told a lie that would embarrass me for years to come.

“This is no vacation,” I told friends and reluctant donors.

I imagined myself magnanimous, but now I see. I have been cruel.

No one in Lagos slouches. Bravado pulsates through the room.

Instead of attunement, I was given a pair of size 6 Toughskins.