Greek philosophers put it bluntly: The best thing in the world is not to be born; but the second best is to die. Up to the point of suicide the suffering continues to be sufferable.
The best thing in the world is not to be born; but the second best is to die.
We were maids and farmers, handymen and washerwomen, and anything higher that we aspired to was farcical and presumptuous.
We blueberried on an open flat beside the river. The ground was covered with great frosted blue globules, sweet and warm in the sunshine.
Men in three-piece suits sat next to guys wearing hunting-orange sweatshirts and mud-kicker boots, encapsulating the rural community Waxenfelter inhabited for more than a decade.
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