Lolita, or the Confession of a White Widowed Male
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo-lee-ta.
The Diceman
Lil and I had met and mated when we were both twenty-five. We formed a deep, irrational, obviously neurotic need for one another: love - one of society's many socially accepted forms of madness. We got married: society's solution to loneliness, lust and laundry. We...
Immortality
every day we are stabbed by thousands of looks, but this is not enough: in the end one single stare will be instituted which will not leave us for a moment, will follow us in the street, in the woods, at the doctor's on the operating table, in bed; pictures of our...
Nine Stories
A Perfect Day For Bananafishthe young man put on his robe, closed the lapels tight, and jammed his towel into his pocket. he picked up the slimy wet, cumbersome float and put it under his arm. he plodded alone through the soft, hot sand toward the hotel. on the...
Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
do not stand at my grave and weep i am not there. i do not sleep. i am a thousand winds that blow i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain i am the gentle autumn rain. when you awaken in the morning's bush, i am the swift uplifting rush of...