#1923 #AmericanWriters #Epigram #ThreeStoriesAndTenPoems
I’m off’n wild wimmen An Cognac An Sinnin’ For I’m in loOOOOOOOve.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall… want him for long.
I heard the drums coming down the street and then the fifes and the pipes and then they came around the corner, all dancing. The street full of them. Maera saw him and then I saw him. W...
They hanged Sam Cardinella at six o’clock in the morning in the corridor of the county jail. The corridor was high and narrow with tiers of cells on either side. All the cells were occu...
Manuel Garcia climbed the stairs to Don Miguel Retana’s office. He set down his suitcase and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Manuel, standing in the hallway, felt there was so...
The train passed very quickly a long, red stone house with a garden and four thick palm-trees with tables under them in the shade. On the other side was the sea. Then there was a cuttin...
At two o’clock in the morning two Hungarians got into a cigar store at Fifteenth Street and Grand Avenue. Drevitts and Boyle drove up from the Fifteenth Street police station in a Ford....
Some came in chains Unrepentant but tired. Too tired but to stumble. Thinking and hating were finished Thinking and fighting were finishe…
Maera lay still, his head on his arms, his face in the sand. He felt warm and sticky from the bleeding. Each time he felt the horn coming. Sometimes the bull only bumped him with his he...
In the rain in the rain in the rai… Does it rain in Spain? Oh yes my dear on the contrary and… The dancers dance in long white pa… It isn’t right to yence your aunts
Never trust a white man, Never kill a Jew, Never sign a contract, Never rent a pew. Don’t enlist in armies;
There are never any suicides in th… No successful suicides. A Chinese boy kills himself and i… (they continue to place his mail i… A Norwegian boy kills himself and…
If it happened right down close in front of you, you could see Villalta snarl at the bull and curse him, and when the bull charged he swung back firmly like an oak when the wind hits it...
All of the Indians are dead (a good Indian is a dead Indian) Or riding in motor cars— (the oil lands, you know, they’re… Smoke smarts my eyes,
The mills of the gods grind slowly… But this mill Chatters in mechanical staccato. Ugly short infantry of the mind, Advancing over difficult terrain,