Worry is a mean-faced dwarf who beats on your heart like a kettledrum. — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
Worry is a mean-faced dwarf who beats on your heart like a kettledrum. — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“If I could, I would work my way backward, paring away the years. I would reel my life arouond the wheel of this longing… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“The incident made her remember the story she had heard about the girl who was raised in a room with no horizontal lines. She… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“Sometimes I remember the way I used to be," she said as we sat across the table from each other, "and I'm surprised nobody… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
A successful song comes to sing itself inside the listener. It is cellular and seismic, a wave coalescing in the mind and in the… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
What I wanted was to write a memoir that was immersive rather than reflective, to resurrect a long-gone version of my own consciousness. I… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
Sometimes they rose up inside her, these moments of fierce happiness, kindling out of their own substance like a spark igniting a mound of… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
It's like you're born with all these blessings, only you don't realize they're blessings until you lose them. And if you're thick-headed enough, like… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“The street lamps and illuminated signs were all extinguished, and on impulse everybody looked into the sky. The frogs and crickets fell quiet to… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
You have a pet theory, one you have been turning over for years, that life itself is a kind of Rube Goldberg device, an… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
Who was it who said that every virtue contains its corresponding vice? C.S. Lewis? Virginia Woolf? You forget. But it has always worried you… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
The living carry us inside them like pearls. We survive only so long as they remember us. — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“My son was something of a disciple of flying things. On his bedroom wall were posters of fighter planes and wild birds. A model… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
“The game had to be played the same way every day or the pieces would fall to the floor, the board would collapse, and… — Kevin Brockmeier Copy Share Image
