Mystery fiction is, after all, a substitute for tranquilizers, strong drink, and bad, if diverting, companions. One slips into bed ... onto the train… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
Meanwhile, as we read, two little girls slept as if couched on zephyrs on the south side of the parlor floor, in a room… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
Like most people, most Westerners anyway, I have a sneaking suspicion I am immortal. — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
In giving our daughter life, her father and I had also given her death, something I hadn't realized until that new creature flailed her… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
“If I was not really at home with everyone, neither was I a stranger to anyone, and if all my acquaintances were slightly skewed,… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
I was, after all, the daughter of a man who believed that to be involved with books was to live at the heart of… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
the hymns were born in the fifteenth or sixteenth century or earlier, and listening to them was like licking an icicle: the same chill,… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
I had wanted to come back to Greenwich Village ever since I had left Waverly Place, and since moving to West Eleventh Street, I… — Mary Cantwell Copy Share Image
