Listening to Kay Ryan again

and her impressive command of the simple in all its complexity. I skip the linebreaks, which are deceptive, because I don’t have the physical book handy:

. . . fifty-fifty. That’s as bad as it gets, usually, despite the fear when life angles brutally. (“Dogleg”)

. . . The passage of a life should show. It should abrade. And when life stops, a certain space, however small, should be left scarred by the grand and damaging parade. Things shouldn’t be so hard. (“Things Shouldn’t Be So Hard”)

. . . trapped in a tub filling with our own fears, strapped to a breadstick mast that a mouse could chew down. (“Shipwreck”)

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