I fear that even if it is beautiful in the abstract, that my doing it knowing that it’s beautiful and worse, knowing that I will very soon be documenting it, that in my pocket is a tape recorder brought for just that purpose—that all this makes this act of potential beauty somehow gruesome. I am a monster.

Five minutes,” I said, and walked away, but my heart was still going just as fast as before. This was only half over. Was it five minutes until I pulled this off? Or five minutes to live?

His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum.

Mountains will go into labour, and a silly little mouse will be born.

Written By Horace

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