Silver Donald Cameron
Goodreads Author
Born
in Toronto ON, Canada
Website
Twitter
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Member Since
July 2014
More books by Silver Donald Cameron…
“I think of Acadian cussing as a form of bilingual folk poetry. I take a pwerless battery from my boat to the local garage, and Claude Poirier shakes his head sadly as he announces his diagnosis: 'C'est tout fucké, ça.'
'He's so goddamn cute!' says an Acadian grandmother adoringly, cradling her baby grandson. 'I could just squeeze the fuckin' shit right outta him.' Perhaps my favourite line of all is a disgusted Acadian's declaration that 'That fuckin' t'ing is fuckin' well fucked.”
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
'He's so goddamn cute!' says an Acadian grandmother adoringly, cradling her baby grandson. 'I could just squeeze the fuckin' shit right outta him.' Perhaps my favourite line of all is a disgusted Acadian's declaration that 'That fuckin' t'ing is fuckin' well fucked.”
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
“Ray,' I said, 'is everyone your cousin?'
'Well, I got ten uncles and aunts on my mother's side, and ten more on my father's. And one of my uncles had twenty-eight kids. I got a lot of cousins.”
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
'Well, I got ten uncles and aunts on my mother's side, and ten more on my father's. And one of my uncles had twenty-eight kids. I got a lot of cousins.”
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
“The truth is that the law enforcement system offers no effective protection for someone like Susan Butlin -- or Carla Samson. None.”
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
― Blood in the Water: A True Story of Revenge in the Maritimes
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“Vice is a monster of so frightful mien
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
―
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
―
“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like gravel. It is strange that this image of our proximity, concerning as it does mere phosphate of calcium, should bestow a sense of peace. Yet it does. With you I can imagine a place where to be phosphate of calcium is enough.”
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