Skeleton Creek Quotes

Physically, mentally, emotionally -- it seems like every part of me is broken in one way or another.

I really hope that all librarians aren't like Gladys Morgan. Because I'd really like , at some point, to walk into a library and not be afraid for my life.

There's something darn funny about an old librarian with a potty mouth.

There was a time when I thought I turned terrible things over in my mind because I read and wrote too many scary stories. (Note self: start writing about unicorns and bunnies)

He has a frightening aversion to text messaging in general. "It's a phone. It's for making calls, not for writing novels".

Lo que más odio de escribir en la era digital es que todo acaba por desaparecer. Es como escribir cartas que se evaporan en el aire después de que uno las lea. Por eso hago copias. El papel dura siempre.

Creo que mis escritores favoritos son los que reconocieron que no podían vivir sin escribir. (...), tipos para los que escribir era tan esencial como el aire y el agua. Escribir o morir intentándolo. Esa forma de pensar coincide conmigo. Por eso estoy aquí.

Un simple clic; no hace falta nada más para cambiar una vida. A veces para mejor. A veces para mucho peor. Pero nunca lo pensamos. Hacemos clic y ya está.

No es cuestión de preguntarnos si queremos o no queremos ir. Tenemos que ir.

What in the fuck," Carter muttered after walking into the rather large skull of an animal I didn't think I'd ever seen before. "It's certainly not the interior design choice I would have gone for," Kelly whispered to him. "You think? Nothing says 'welcome to my murder shack' like skeletons hanging from the ceiling." "Is that a jar of eyeballs on the shelf?" "What? No, don't be stup—that's a jar of eyeballs on the shelf. Well, now I'm officially that person that shouldn't have gone inside the house.

It all scares me, and it's all like clothes in a dryer that just keep rolling around in my head from one day to the next.

The creek at night under the moon was just enough like the creek in daylight to be reassuring. There was the deadfall spruce that sieved the current with skeleton branches, churning a line of pale foam. There was the long pool above, a dark mirror of tree shadows and beacon moon. There were the gravel bars, chalky, shaped to the banks and swept into low moraines that divided the water. There the sky, softened as if by a thin fog of moonlight, filling the canyon. For a moment I forgot my preoccupation with the dark and drove up the road with that awe I felt before certain paintings in certain museums, the awe in which I disappeared.

clearing had become… “My king!!” It was the voice of C’Thor. He approached me from a bustling and wandering group of—I don’t know how many—creepers! There were creepers congregating in little clustered groups all over the clearing, amidst the green grass, the yellow and red flowers. They stood around and chatted with each other by the mine, by the creek, even

Once, for example, on a train going across Canada, I began talking to a man everyone was avoiding because he was weaving and slurring his speech as if drunk. It turned out that he was recovering from a stroke. He had been an engineer on the same line we were riding, and long into the night he revealed to me the history beneath every mile of track: Pile O’Bones Creek, named for the thousands of buffalo skeletons left there by Indian hunters; the legend of Big Jack, a Swedish track-layer who could lift 500-pound steel rails; a conductor named McDonald who kept a rabbit as his traveling companion. As the morning sun began to tint the horizon, he grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes. “Thanks for listening. Most people wouldn’t bother.” He didn’t have to thank me. The pleasure had been all mine.

History is a delicate matter in a diverse country. Shortly after the fall of the Alamo—likewise in 1836—Mexican troops defeated the Texans at the Battle of Coleto Creek near Goliad, Texas. The Texans surrendered, believing they would be treated as prisoners of war. Instead, the Mexicans marched the 300 or so survivors to Goliad and shot them in what became known as the Goliad Massacre. Mexicans resent the term “massacre.” With the city of Goliad now half Hispanic, they insist on “execution.” Many Anglos, said Benny Martinez of the Goliad chapter of the League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), “still hate Mexicans and using ‘massacre’ is a subtle way for them to express it.” Watertown, Massachusetts, had a different disagreement about history. In 2007, the town’s more than 8,000 Armenian-Americans were so angry at the Anti-Defamation League’s refusal to recognize the World War I Turkish massacres of Armenians as genocide that they persuaded the city council to cut ties with the ADL’s “No Place For Hate” program designed to fight discrimination. Other towns with a strong Armenian presence—Newton, Belmont, Somerville, and Arlington—were considering breaking with the ADL. Filmmaker Ken Burns has learned that diversity complicates history. When he made a documentary on the Second World War, Latino groups complained it did not include enough Hispanics—even though none had seen it. Mr. Burns bristled at the idea of changing his film, but Hispanics put enough pressure on the Public Broadcasting Service to force him to. Even prehistory is divisive. In 1996, two men walking along the Columbia River in Washington State discovered a skeleton that was found to be 9,200 years old. “Kennewick Man,” as the bones came to be called, was one of the oldest nearly complete human skeletons ever uncovered in North America and was of great interest to scientists because his features were more Caucasian than American Indian. Local Indians claimed he was an ancestor and insisted on reburying him. It took more than eight years of legal battles before scientists got full access to the remains.