Lan Guerero

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Peter B. Forster
“I hope these words will be of some help and comfort to those who read them.
Nobody knows when they will be tested and there are no right or wrong answers, we are all of us lost when tragedy comes to call. All we can ever do is to be there, give love and do the best we can, often that is all it needs.”
Peter B. Forster, More Than Love, A Husband's Tale

Candace L. Talmadge
“Good evening, Sergeant,” Helen said. “What’s that?”
He held the bag out to her. “A present for Lieutenant Angel. Something
to eat on your journey.”
She took it and put it back on the desk. “Wipe that damn grin off
your face, Sergeant. A smiling Toltec is a contradiction in terms.”
Candace L. Talmadge, Stoneslayer: Book One Scandal

Sara Pascoe
“He thrust his shoulders back and spoke in a whisper that sounded like the hiss of a snake.
‘Yes, the very battle between good and evil, played out even in the lowliest of lives like yours. Witches killing dogs because they did not get their favourite drink.”
Sara Pascoe, Being a Witch, and Other Things I Didn't Ask For

Annie Proulx
“Big and little they went on together to Molalla, to Tuska, to Roswell, Guthrie, Kaycee, to Baker and Bend. After a few weeks Pake said that if Diamond wanted a permanent traveling partner he was up for it. Diamond said yeah, although only a few states still allowed steer roping and Pake had to cover long, empty ground, his main territory in the livestock country of Oklahoma, Wyoming, Oregon and New Mexico. Their schedules did not fit into the same box without patient adjustment. But Pake knew a hundred dirt road shortcuts, steering them through scabland and slope country, in and out of the tiger shits, over the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts, into early darkness and the first storm laying down black ice, hard orange-dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog, two redheaded cowboys moving a house that filled the roadway and Pake busting around and into the ditch to get past, leaving junkyards and Mexican cafes behind, turning into midnight motel entrances with RING OFFICE BELL signs or steering onto the black prairie for a stunned hour of sleep.”
Annie Proulx, Close Range: Wyoming Stories

Fred Gipson
“You want our boy to grow up to be nothing but a no-account fiddle-footed rake, Aaron Kinney?” she said. “With never a thought in his head but to run wild in the woods with a passel of pesky hound-dogs?”

“No, Cora,” Papa said. “But a coon hunt now and then ain’t going to ruin him. I was on a few myself and got over it.”

“Yes, Mama pointed out, “but that was because I laid the law down about dogs. Hadn’t been for that, you’d still be fooling away your time in the woods, same as always. And we wouldn’t own a rag to cover our backs.”
Fred Gipson, Hound Dog Man
tags: dogs

year in books
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