The Corpse Exhibition and Other Stories of Iraq

Spilled blood and superstition are the basis of the world. Man is not the only creature who kills for bread, or love, or power, because animals in the jungle do that in various ways, but he is the only creature who kills because of faith.

The dead, Your Honor, do not agonize over their crimes and do not long to be happy, as you know.

Every man has both a poetic obligation and a human obligation.

The question of humanity can be solved only by constant dread.

I wanted to reach back to other times I might have lived in, the traces of which are scattered to places I previously thought imaginary.

Then he thrust the knife into my stomach and said: "You're shaking.

He sent you a text message that read: FIre Sign - You're compatible with all signs. Your blood group breathes disappointment and happiness. You stick your tongue in the woman's mouth in order to cool down. The fog that burns on the ceiling is the steam of sweat. You buy pins and colored pictures from the shop. You pin them on your flesh when you receive a guest. The firewood comes to you throughout the night, wrapped in nightmares. When you wake up you have a bath on fire. You eat on fire. You read the newspapers on fire. You smoke a cigarette on fire. In the coffee cup you come across prophecies of fire. You laugh on fire. You have your lungs checked at the hospital, and they find a spring of errors that looks like a tumor. You dream of the final act: It goes out.

There's no need to kick him in the balls for him to tell the story honestly and impartially, because the dead are usually honest, even the bastards among them.

It's bullshit what that bullshitter says. A story's a story, whether it's beautiful or bullshit.