Shotgun Lovesongs Quotes

In all my travels, only in the Midwest would someone spend their money in a place they hate simply because they feel bad for the proprietors. Also I suppose, because they know your name.

America, I think, is about poor people playing music and poor people sharing food and poor people dancing, even when everything else in their life is so desperate, and so dismal that it doesn't seem there should be any room for any music, any extra food, or any extra energy for dancing. And people can say that I'm wrong, that we're a puritanical people, an evangelical people, a selfish people, but I don't believe that. I don't want to believe that.

When he talked politics, it was with me, or my sister, pointing a steady and patient finger at us, saying, “I don’t care about left or right. It’s all nonsense. All I ask of you is this: Be kind. Be decent. And don’t be greedy.

Sometimes that is what forgiveness is anyway, a deep sigh

This is my home. This is the place that first believed in me. That still believes in me.

Winter in Wisconsin is the ideal time to avoid someone because our garments grow ever larger, ever thicker, and we go about the frozen world insulated beneath knit caps and mittens, our feet clad in mukluks or boots.

Here, I can hear things, the world throbs differently, silence thrums like a chord strummed eons ago, music in the aspen trees and in the firs and burr oaks and even in the fields of drying corn.

No, the safest thing is to become an island. To make your house a citadel against all the garbage and ugliness in the world. How else can you be sure of anything?

I live here, I have chosen to live here, because life seems real to me here.

Sing like you've got no audience, sing like you don't know what a critic is, sing about your hometown, sing about your prom, sing about deer, sing about the seasons, sing about your mother, sing about chainsaws, sing about the thaw, sing about the rivers, sing about forests, sing about the prairies. But whatever you do, start singing early in the morning, if only just to keep warm. And if you happen to live in a warm beautiful place … Move to Wisconsin. Buy a wood stove, and spend a week splitting wood. It worked for me.

I do not relish leaving home, leaving my children, leaving the familiarity of my bed, my coffee maker, my slippers, but I do love hotels.

First of all, I want you to think of the city as a collection of people. That's easy, right? You think of Minneapolis or Chicago or Milwaukee, you think of hundreds of thousands of people. Millions of people. That's what you think of right away. Maybe you think of sky-scrapers too, I don't know. But I think of people. The next thing you should think about is ideas. Think of each of those millions of people as a set of ideas. Like, That woman is a ballerina, she thinks about ballet. Or, that man is an architect, he thinks about buildings. If you begin thinking about it that way, a city is the greatest place in the world. It's millions of people, brushing up against one another, exchanging ideas, all the time, at every hour of the day.

as I watched their approach I wondered whether the slow pace of a wedding march was for the benefit of a bride on her most beautiful day, or for the aging father preparing to give her away.

It's all been worth it. Every fight, all those years of childish experimentation, the occasional heartbreak, the paltry checking account, the used, old trucks. To have lived with another human being, another person, this man, as long as I have and to see him change and grow.

It’s all been worth it. Every fight, all those years of childish experimentation, the occasional heartbreak, the paltry checking account, the used, old trucks. To have lived with another human being, another person, this man, as long as I have, and to see him change and grow. To see him become more decent and more patient, stronger and more competent—to see how he loves our children—how he wrestles with them on the floor and kisses them unabashedly in public. To hear his voice in the evening, reading books to them, or explaining to them what his father was like while he was alive, or what I was like as a girl, a teenager, a young woman. To hear him explain why our part of the world is so special.

America, I think, is about poor people playing music and poor people sharing food and poor people dancing, even when everything else in their lives is so desperate, and so dismal that it doesn’t seem that there should be any room for any music, any extra food, or any extra energy for dancing.

E lì, nel mezzo del mio salotto, c’era un coyote a quattro zampe con il pelo giallastro; la porta d’ingresso era ancora spalancata. Rimasi pietrificato. Il coyote alzò la testa, mi studiò per qualche secondo e sollevò una zampa tinta di bianco per grattare l’aria tra noi. Non saprei dire quanto siamo rimasti in quella posizione ad annusarci, ma alla fine ho avuto il buon senso di dire con voce tagliente: «Vattene, via, sciò.» Temevo che la mia voce non avrebbe funzionato. E il coyote lo fece, voltandosi lentamente come un cane che aveva ricevuto una ramanzina; tornò verso la porta principale in quella che era diventata un’andatura spavalda, prima di lanciarsi in una corsa vera e propria sulle strisce di prato che separavano la casa dal vialetto e di infiltrarsi nell’erba alta dove vidi il suo pelo bianco-giallo spuntare di tanto in tanto in mezzo ai fiori selvatici. Poi chiusi la porta col lucchetto, una cosa che faccio raramente, eppure la feci. Mi sedetti, e rimasi immobile a lungo. Mi fissai le mani. Mi sentivo vivo, sentivo ogni fibra del corpo che vibrava, ogni atomo energizzato, il sangue che scorreva spavaldo. Vivo qui, ho scelto di vivere qui, perché qui la vita mi sembra reale. Autentica, genuina... non lo so, fattibile. Magari si sentono tutti così, magari no.

Beth changed her ensemble five times that morning, switching out her shoes, her necklaces, her earrings. I understood. Had I owned more than one suit, I would have done the same thing. As it was, I just sat in a battered old chair in our bedroom and watched her. She was beautiful to me. I could see that she had shaved her legs, supple and taut above the easy grip of her heels. She mussed her hair and pursed her lips at the mirror. “What do you think?” she said finally, turning to me. I stood and went to her, understanding right then that we were already growing older, that we would grow old together. “I think you’re beautiful,” I said. I kissed her. “Hey—watch the lipstick,” she said, swatting me away playfully before pulling me in close again. She set her chin on my shoulder and we slow danced that way, there in our bedroom, the worn carpeting beneath our best scuffed shoes. “I love you,” she said, “even if you’re not a rock star.” “I love you,” I said, “even though you’re not a movie star.” We kissed again and held hands as we walked downstairs, our garments good enough. The

The wolves, the bears, the phantom elk and bobcat and cougars. The geese in their uniform squadrons and the ducks and wild loons. But the deer remain my favorite. That pasture that I watch, their families moving through like nomads or refugees or better natives-I'll never know. ..Other Wisconsinites, I know, think of them almost as vermin, a pestilence, some kind of creature that is nothing but an inconvenience, a species that daily commits mass suicide by walking into oncoming traffic, a creature that harms crops, that ruins gardens, whose population has grown to the point of infestation. But I've never believed any of that. We're the reason there are os many deer. It's not their fault. Maybe there are too many of us: too many people driving cars, eating too much corn, building too many houses, crowding out the wolves and coyotes. I love deer.

Buttery nipples,” I said, smiling broadly. “Buttery nipples.