Oata […] rutches herself over the middle of the seat […] […] And I know for sure that I have a pink face because the stubble on my chin feels hot and Oata rutches her chair closer to me so she can pour the last wine from the catsup bottle into our glasses […]

The romantic South of myth and legend, the “moonlight and magnolia” South with which plantation epics captured the national imagination in the era of the Lost Cause, has acquired a nightmarish quality; […]

For others, the process of reducing words to numbers is like sucking the life out of language, a remorseless exercise in Gradgrindery whose limited worldview masquerades as objectivity and universal truth.

I consider such, remarks as onnecessary [sic] and slightsome, replied Dinah, with a scornful toss of her head; …