“But history does matter. There is a line connecting the Armenians and the Jews and the Cambodians and the Bosnians and the Rwandans. There are obviously more, but, really, how much genocide can one sentence handle?”
“When it seems you have nothing at all to live for, death is not especially frightening.”
“He recalls what that first German soldier said to his major: No God-not yours or mine-approves of what you're doing.”
“But history does matter. There are lines connecting the Armenians and the Jews and the Cambodians and the Serbs and the Rwandans. They are obviously morbid. Really, how much genocide can one sentence handle? You get the point. Besides, my grandparents’ story deserves to be told, regardless of their nationalities.”
“Those who participate in a genocide as well as those who merely look away rarely volunteer much in the way of anecdote or observation. Same with the heroic and the righteous. Usually it's only the survivors who speak-and often they don't want to talk much about it either. p. 75”
“How the Germans can remain allies with the Turks is beyond me. No European nation would ever commit the sorts of crimes that this regime is blithely committing right now.”
“we have on earth exactly the amount of time that has been allotted to us, no more and no less. We really have precious little control.”
“It was Aldous Huxley who observed, “Every man’s memory is his private literature.”
“be wary of what I might learn. “No. Do you think I should?” “I don’t know. Maybe,” she replied, and in my mind I saw her in her high-backed bar stool at the island in the kitchen where the kids scarfed down their Lucky Charms before walking down the hill to school. Then, before I could answer, she went on, “It will be weird if we’re related to the woman in the photo.” “In what way?” “She’s so …” “Go ahead,” I said. “She’s not like us. Even if she is related to us, she’s not like us. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that she’s from a different world.”
“She talks and talks because whenever she is silent she finds herself looking at him and her breath grows a little short.”
“are an Armenian,” says the Turk with the handgun. “I am.” “Where are you going?” “Damascus.” “Why?” “My sister lives there.” “What do you do?” “I’m an engineer. I’m working on the Baghdad Railway—the spur from Aleppo to Nusaybin.” “The British have captured Nasiriyah.” “I hadn’t heard that.” He nods. “Had you heard that an Armenian murdered a Turkish”
“I'm a witch and witches burn.”
“Leave it to Bright Side to haunt me from the grave—and instead of it being creepy, it’s sunshine and rainbows and fucking unicorns.”
“When the tiger executes a merger with the goat, which one walks away?”
“I'm consumed with curiosity because if I know Dirk, he probably sent his family a two-tine note—"I'm getting married. I'll be there in a week,"—and no further explanation whatsoever."
Skif laughed, and admitted that that was just about what Dirk had written, word for word.”
“According to the man, who identified himself as Morton Thornton, the night got real long and by midnight, he was darn well wed to one of the lovelier inhabitants of the dish, a comely middle-aged amoeba of unknown parentage named Rita. When he was rescued on the morning of the following day, Morton plumb forgot about his single-celled nuptials and went back to his daytime job tasting the contents of open pop bottles for backwash and cigarette butts. Only sixteen years later, when a brilliant Sacajawea Junior High roving reporter—who shall remain nameless—discovered the product of this union lurking among us right here at Sac Junior High, was Morton’s long-held secret discovered. “This intrepid reporter was present three weeks into Dale Thornton’s third try at seventh grade, when the young Einstein bet this reporter and several other members of the class that he could keep a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth from the beginning of fifth period Social Studies until the bell. The dumb jerk only lasted twenty minutes, after which he sprinted from the room, not to be seen for the rest of the day. When he returned on the following morning, he told Mr. Getz he had suddenly become ill and had to go home, but without a written excuse (he probably didn’t have a rock big enough for his dad to chisel it on) he was sent to the office. The principal, whose intellectual capacities lie only fractions of an IQ point above Dale’s, believed his lame story, and Dale was readmitted to class. Our dauntless reporter, however, smelled a larger story, recognizing that for a person to attempt this in the first place, even his genes would have to be dumber than dirt. With a zeal rivaled only by Alex Haley’s relentless search for Kunta Kinte, he dived into Dale’s seamy background, where he discovered the above story to be absolutely true and correct. Further developments will appear in this newspaper as they unfold.”
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