Matt Bean

“He stood in the center of the square where the tracks of commerce lay fossilized in dried mud all about him, turning, an amphitheatrical figure in that moonwrought waste manacled to a shadow that struggled grossly in the dust.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Outer Dark

“They motored out past the pilings, dark with pitch and trailing a green scurf in the claycolored water.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

“The snow falls in cartoonish heaps, and I think blurrily of how forms are destiny: how the rain is destined for its torrents and the snow for its drifts, and the poems for their sheafs and me for the poems. Something seizes me and I break into a sudden run down the silent street. “I am fast,” I always insist to my husband, lying motionless and stubborn in the middle of the bed. “I used to be so fast, until I grew up and got boobs.” He never believes me, but look now, I am fast again; I’m running in between the snowflakes. The unrepeating”
― Patricia Lockwood, Priestdaddy: A Memoir

“fingerprints fall all around me, into great indistinguishable peaks and slopes. The stars look like cusps, everything looks like a cusp. The streetlights still flow, the night smells like a new dime, and the mailbox seems to shine with the accumulation of all it has ever received. The seminarian is laughing and waving me toward the open door, but I am not cold and I am not coming back just yet. Places for people, wide spaces and small, little bodies floating down into their forms. I run even toward the church, till I can see the Marian grotto hidden on one side where the garden is pinched out like a series of matches. It is almost Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, in that church, the songs I like best will flame out their brief lives, there and then gone, while the people hold soft and slumping candles under their chins and circles of cardboard catch the notes of hot wax. They will return again next year.”
― Patricia Lockwood, Priestdaddy: A Memoir