Woe to Live On

This new spot for life might be but a short journey as a winged creature covers it, that is often said, but, oh, Lord, as you know, I had not the wings, and it is a hot, hard ride by road.

The bodies draped down through the leaves like rancid baubles in the locks of a horrible harlot.

So much death and no coffee to be had.

babies don't know anything but nipples and lullabies. they splash out looks of wonder on anybody whether they merit it or not.

I was not much used to women except for mothers. Everything I did, they did different.

In the morning we shed our blue sheep’s clothing. Our border shirts came out of satchels and onto our backs. We preferred this means of dress for it was more flatout and honest. The shirts were large with pistol pockets, and usually colored red or dun. Many had been embroidered with ornate stitching by loving women some were blessed enough to have. Mine was plain, but well broken in. I can think of no more chilling a sight than that of myself all astride my big bay horse with six or eight pistols dangling from my saddle, my rebel locks aloft on the breeze and a whoopish yell on my lips. When my awful costume was multiplied by that of my comrades, we stopped feint hearts just by our mode of dread stylishness.

The pain was shrill enough, but the idea of a finger of mine twitching about, lost in chicken-pecked dust, was more terrible.

babies don't know anything but nipples and lullabies.

Jack Bull Chiles was near me but did not speak for a great stretch of time. He had been a bystander to the day but never an active part of it. “Say, Jake,” he eventually said, “what are you knowing?” “I feel I am knowing too much.” “Ah. Well, forget it. Throw it down.” “Once you are knowing it, that is hard to do.” “Oh, hell, Jake. Too much knowledge is only a form of torture. You can do nothing with it but recognize a wider variety of agonies.

They had come to Missouri for a fresh start

I was borrowing confidence on credit from faith.

The reverend sacked out on the floor where Holt and me had been sleeping. The man had several pistols on him, as he was aware that the Lord works in mysterious ways and some of them require the blasting of others.

Dumb and bold things are best accomplished drunk, we figured, so we went deep into the popskull.

Hope, I was learning, is a hardy comrade but not too trustworthy. It wouldn’t do to count on him.

This must always be admitted of us—for desperate dash and cruelty we were unbettered men.

On this day I saw a three-legged buck, with battered antlers and worn fur, drag off through the woods. The proud stag lived on but, crippled up and worn, he would soon feed other beasts.

Manners won’t cost you a thing,” Asa said. “But they may gain you plenty.

If all meals were pecan pie, you’d yearn for a cold potato.

The universe sometimes makes war seem a mere chigger in comparison, but that is in no way soothing to one who has the itch.