This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn’t? Doesn’t the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on ‘roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love–madly, truly–with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she’s his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark– God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too–eating and money and Paulie and omerta` --the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie–don’t even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story. . Jess Walter
The soul, they say, is divine and the flesh is iniquity. But I am a musician and I ask this - without the wood and the strings of the violin, where would the sonata find form?
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Kathleen Valentine
… I suppose that it is not so easy to go home and it takes a bit of time to make a son out of a stranger.
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Albert Camus
Everyone wanted me to be the bad boy, the label wanted it, the publicists wanted it, but I was just trying to be myself.
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Cassandra Giovanni
It's me being me making you be you...
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Nitya Prakash
Owen folded his arms around Morgan to steady her when she crashed into him, and was enveloped by her scent, her warm softness. When she gave a scared little scream, he tightened his arms in a protective reflex. She fit him perfectly, he noted distractedly....
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Kristen Casey
More Quotes By Jess Walter
We live in a world of banal miracles.
All we have is the story we tell. Everything we do, every decision we make, our strength, weakness, motivation, history, and character-what we believe-none of it is real; it's all part of the story we tell.
He found himself inhabiting the vast, empty plateau where most people live, between boredom and contentment.
Life, he thought, is a blatant act of imagination.
