A man made of scrap muscle & the steam engine’s imagination

And liable to crush a fool’s face like newsprint; headlines of Hollywood blood and wincing.

She had a hour at best before Liza appeared pouting from the top of the stairs.

Sometimes there were things to watch- the pinched armor of a vanished cricket, a floating maple leaf.

She wanted a little room for thinking:

But limped on

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

ecstasy

I painted them hundreds of times eyes closed. These I painted blind. Some things never leave a person: scent of the hair of one you love, the texture of persimmons, in your palm, the ripe weight.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun inside, something golden, glowing, warm as my face.

she is beautiful as the moon.

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker slapped the back of my head and made me stand in the corner for not knowing the difference

persimmon

"Mr. Kapasi," Mrs. Das shrieked, noticing him standing to one side."Do something, for God’s sake, do something

It disturbed Mr. Kapasi to learn that she thought of himas a parent. The feeling he had had toward her, that had made him checkhis reflection

almost delirious with relief. He did notknow what he would do or say to Mrs. Das once they arrived at the hills.Perhaps he would tell her what a pleasing smile she had. Perhaps hewould compliment her strawberry shirt, which he found irresistiblybecoming. Perhaps, when Mr. Das was busy taking a picture, he wouldtake her hand.

He had never admired the backs of his wife’slegs the way he now admired those of Mrs. Das, walking as if for his ben-efit alone. He had, of course, seen plenty of bare fimbs before, belongingto the American and European ladies who took his tours. But Mrs. Daswas different. Unlike the other women, who had an interest only in thetemple, and kept their noses buried in a guidebook, or their eyes behindthe lens of a camera, Mrs. Das had taken an interest in hi

but Mrs. Das had already dropped it intothe jumble of her .bag

found nothing noble in inter-preting people’s maladies, assiduously translating the symptoms of somany swollen bones, countless cramps of bellies and bowels, spots onpeople’s palms that changed color, shape, or siz

Mr. Das announced withan air of sudden confidence

Indian and American cultures in shapingher perspective on llfe

He would not tolerate laxity. He would show strength,distancing himself

They spokebitterly about guys who had found release by shooting off theirown toes or fingers. Pussies, they'd say. Candy-asses. It wasfierce, mocking talk, with only a trace of envy or awe, but evenso the image played itself out behind their eyes

He liked the smell of the New Testamentunder his cheek, the leather and ink and paper and glue,whatever the chemicals were. He liked hearing the sounds ofnight. Even his fatigue, it felt fine, the stiff muscles and theprickly awareness of his own body, a floating feeling. Heenjoyed not being dead

. Oh shit, Rat Kiley said, the guy'sdead. The guy's dead, he kept saying, which seemedprofound—the guy's dead. I mean really

. Imagination was a killer

including a silentawe for the terrible power of the things they carrie

Than Khe, and hewent down under an exceptional burden, more than 20 poundsof ammunition, plus the flak jacket and helmet and rations andwater and toilet paper

Henry Dobbinscarried the M-60, which weighed 23 pounds unloaded, butwhich was almost always loaded. In addition, Dobbins carriedbetween 10 and 15 pounds of ammunition draped in beltsacross his chest and shoulders

More than anything, he wanted Martha to love himas he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive onthe matter of love

which we knew only Mama and Daddy. And he was giving it back, as everything must be given back, so that, passing through death, it can live forever.

For, while the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it always must be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness

I was introduced to all of them and they were all very polite to me.

"Sometimes you'll do anything to play, even cut your mother's throat." He laughed and looked at me. "Or your brother's.

die trying not to suffer. At least, not any faster than anybody else." "But there's no need," I said, trying to laugh, "is there? in killing yourself

That's right."

No. Well, maybe

You going to need me, baby, one of these cold, rainy days.

He finally sent me a postcard from some place in Greece and that was the first I knew that Sonny was still alive. I didn't see him any more until we were both back in New York and the war had long been over.

He slammed the window so hard I thought the glass would fly out, and turned back to me.

I want to join the army.

"I think people ought to do what they want to do, what else are they alive for?"

He looked more helpless than ever, and annoyed, and deeply hurt

But I think I can play a piano."

By the time he jumped it was too late. Your father says he heard his brother scream when the car rolled over him, and he heard the wood of that guitar when it give, and he heard them strings go flying, and he heard them white men shouting

ain't nothing going to happen to you or Sonny. Sonny's all right. He's a good boy and he's got good sense."

The way I always see her is the way she used to be on a Sunday afternoon, say, when the old folks were talking after the big Sunday dinner. I always see her wearing pale blue. She'd be sitting on the sofa. And my father would be sitting in the easy chair, not far from her. And the living room would be full of church folks and relatives. There they sit, in chairs all around the living room, and the night is creeping up outside

"Safe, hell! Ain't no place safe for kids, nor nobody."

Most of the houses in which we had grown up had vanished, as had the stores from which we had stolen, the basements in which we had first tried sex, the rooftops from which we had hurled tin cans and bricks. But houses exactly like the houses of our past yet dominated the landscape, boys exactly like the boys we once had been found themselves smothering in these houses, came down into the streets for light and air and found themselves encircled by disaster. Some escaped the trap, most didn't

I had heard the first words he had ever spoken. When he started to walk, he walked from our mother straight to me. I caught him just before he fell when he took the first steps he ever took in this world.

I'd rather blow my brains out than go through this again.

t was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station to the high school.

You don't know how much I needed to hear from you

How the hell would I know what you mean?

A terrible, closed look came over his face,

"I told him it felt great." The music stopped, the barmaid paused and watched the juke box until the music began again. "It did.

ain't nothing you can do. Can't much help old Sonny no more, I guess.

One boy was whistling a tune, at once very complicated and very simple, it seemed to be pouring out of him as though he were a bird, and it sounded very cool and moving through all that harsh, bright air, only just holding its own through all those other sounds. I stood up and walked over to the window and looked down into the court-yard. It was the beginning of the spring and the sap was rising in the boys