For a long while we just stood there$$$ looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace$$$ but now the long sleep that outlasts love$$$ that conquers even the grimace of love$$$ had cuckolded him. What was left of him$$$ rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt$$$ had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust. Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head.

As they walked through the bright noon$$$ up the sandy road with the dispersing congregation talking easily again group to group$$$ she continued to weep$$$ unmindful of the talk. "He sho a preacher$$$ mon!! He didn't look like much at first$$$ but hush!" "He seed de power en de glory." "Yes$$$ suh. He seed hit. Face to face he seed hit." Dilsey made no sound$$$ her face did not quiver as the tears took their sunken and devious courses$$$ walking with her head up$$$ making no effort to dry them away even.

Where the shadow of the bridge fell I could see down for a long way$$$ but not as far as the bottom. When you leave a leaf in water a long time after awhile the tissue will be gone and the delicate fibres waving slow as the motion of sleep. They don't touch one another$$$ no matter how knotted up they once were$$$ no matter how close they lay once to the bones.

Let me repeat. I have not read all the work of this present generation of writing. I have not had time yet. So I must speak only of the ones I do know. I am thinking now of what I rate the best one$$$ Salinger's Catcher in the Rye$$$ perhaps because this one expresses so completely what I have tried to say.

It was too late. Maybe yesterday$$$ while I was still a child$$$ but not now. I knew too much$$$ had seen too much$$$ I was a child no longer now; innocence and childhood were forever lost$$$ forever gone from me.

A street turned off at right angles$$$ descending$$$ and became a dirt road. On either hand the land dropped more sharply; a broad flat dotted with small cabins whose weathered roofs were on a level with the crown of the road. They were set in small grassless plots littered with broken things$$$ bricks$$$ planks$$$ crockery$$$ things of a once utilitarian value.

Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished.

When you opened the door a bell tinkled$$$ but just once$$$ high and clear and small in the neat obscurity above the door$$$ as though it were gauged and tempered to make that single clear small sound so as not to wear the bell out nor to require the expenditure of too much silence in restoring it when the door opened upon the recent warm scent of baking; a little dirty child with eyes like a toy bear's and two patent-leather pigtails.

The river itself is not a hundred yards across$$$ and pa and Vernon and Vardaman and Dewey Dell are the only things in sight not of that single monotony of desolation leaning with that terrific quality a little from right to left$$$ as though we had reached the place where the motion of the wasted world accelerates just before the final precipice. Yet they appear dwarfed. It is as though the space between us were time: an irrevocable quality.

Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it won't be memory because it won't know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. -Yes he thought Between grief and nothing I will take grief.