Nancy Chang

“His whole life long, even in those few moments when he had experienced some inkling of satisfaction, contentment, and perhaps even happiness, he had preferred exhaling to inhaling—just as he had begun life not with a hopeful gasp for air but with a bloodcurdling scream.”
― John E. Woods

“What choice are you making, Desmond?”
“I don’t think I’m making any choice right now.”
“Then you’re automatically making the wrong ones.” He straightened, mouth open to protest, but I held up my hand. “Not making a choice is a choice. Neutrality is a concept, not a fact. No one actually gets to live their lives that way.”
― Dot Hutchison, The Butterfly Garden

“We have a bad habit of seeing books as sort of cheaply made movies where the words do nothing but create visual narratives in our heads.

So too often what passes for literary criticism is "I couldn't picture that guy", or "I liked that part", or "this part shouldn't have happened." That is, we've left language so far behind that sometimes we judge quality solely based on a story's actions.

So we can appreciate a novel that constructs its conflicts primarily through plot - the layered ambiguity of a fatal car accident caused by a vehicle owned by Gatsby but driven by someone else, for instance. But in this image-drenched world, sometimes we struggle to appreciate and celebrate books where the quality arises not exclusively from plot but also from the language itself.”
― John Green

“My Lover Who Lives Far.....

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room
and offers supper in a bowl made of his breath.

The stew has boiled and I wonder at the cat born from its steam.

The cat is in the bedroom now, mewling. The cat is indecent
and I, who am trying to be tidy, I, who am trying to do things
the proper way, I, who am sick from the shedding, I am undone.

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room
and offers pastries in a basket spun from his vision.

It is closely woven, the kind of container some women collect.

I have seen these in many colors, but the basket he brings is simple:
only black, only nude. The basket he brings is full of sweet scones
and I eat even the crumbs. As if I've not dined for days.

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room
and offers tea made from the liquid he's crying.

I do not want my lover crying and I am sorry I ever asked for tea.

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room pretending
he never cried. He offers tea and cold cakes. The tea is delicious:
spiced like the start of our courtship, honeyed and warm.

I drink every bit of the tea and put aside the rest.

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room
like a man loving his strength. The lock I replaced
this morning will not keep him away.

My lover, who lives far away, opens the door to my room
and brings me nothing.

Perhaps he has noticed how fat I've grown, indulged.

Perhaps he is poor and sick of emptying his store.

It is no matter to me any longer, he has filled me, already, so full.

My lover who is far away opens the door to my room
and tells me he is tired.

I do not ask what he's tired from for my lover, far away,
has already disappeared.

The blankets are big with his body. The cat, under the covers,
because it is cold out and she is not stupid, mews.”
― Camille T. Dungy