“…the nightmare tales Woolrich wrote are thoroughly modern in one sense: they take place in a godless world where monstrous, irrational, barely comprehensible forces wreak violent havoc on the affairs of doomed innocents, who scatter like cockroaches in the night.”

From Richard Dooling’s introduction to Rendezvous in Black by Cornell Woolrich

James Lipton: You’ve described your mother as not liking you for quite protracted moments.“

Hugh Laurie: “Yes. I was a frustration to her.”


“I don’t actually know. And perhaps I’ll never ever work it out. But I think there were big chunks of time when I think she, uh yeah, she didn’t like me. She didn’t like me.”

Inside the Actors Studio

“…it would seem that Wister’s personal values constantly interfered with his objective to describe the West and its people as they really were. Romance and marriage in his novels, as in some of his stories, serve only to emasculate his cowboys, to make them docile Easterners concerned more with personal ambition, accumulation of wealth, and achieving what by Eastern standards could only be considered social standing, rather than luxuriating in their freedom, the openness and emptiness of the land, and the West’s utter disregard for family background. To make his cowboy’s acceptable heroes to himself, as well as to his Eastern readers, Wister felt compelled to imbue them with his own distinctly patrician values. For this reason his stories cannot be said to depict truthfully the contrasts and real conflicts between the East and West of his time and Western readers of his stories have always tended to scoff at what he was presenting as the reality of Western life.
“Wister in his political philosophy was a progressive and what has come to be termed a social Darwinist….He believed in a natural aristocracy, a survival of the fittest – the fittest being those who measured up best to the elective affinities of his own value system. …Yet privately (and this is wht his journals are so illuminating), he lamented the sloth which he felt the West induced in people, and it was his ultimate rejection of the real West that brought about his disillusionment with it and his refusal, after 1911, ever to return there.”

Jon Tuska, Western Stories

“When it was over Morrasey stood panting, the heavy .45, still smoking, dangling carelessly in his hand. Well, he thought with a bleakness that was just bearable, that’s that. And then he waited for something to happen. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but for the past several hours, which had seemed like an eternity, the point to his whole existence, and the hope of rest for Delly, had been centered in the act of killing Omar Jessup.

But nothing changed. Jessup was dead, but so was Delly. And then, slowly but with a fearful thoroughness, it came to him. It was never going to change. No matter what he did, it was never going to change.”

Tragg’s Choice by Clifton Adams

“She looked out at the country mushrooming on the other side of the glass. She knew what it contained, its colors, the penury and the opulence, hazy memories of a less cynical time, villages emptied of men. But on contemplating the tense stillness of the night, the darkness dotted here and there with sparks, on sensing that insidious silence, she wondered, vaguely, what the hell might be festering out there: what grows and what rots when you’re looking the other way. What’s going to appear? she whispered to herself, pretending that as soon as they passed that lamppost, or that one, or that one, she’d see what it was that had been going on in the shadows. Maybe a whole slew of new things, maybe even some good things, or maybe not. Not even in make-believe did she get her hopes up too high.”

Yuri Herrera, Signs Preceding the End of the World

“They are homegrown and they are anglo and both things with rabid intensity; with restrained fervor they can be the meekest and at the same time the most querulous of citizens, albeit grumbling under their breath. Their gestures and tastes reveal both ancient memory and the wonderment of a new people. And then they speak. They speak an intermediary tongue that Makina instantly warms to because it’s like her: malleable, erasable, permeable; a hinge pivoting between two like but distant souls, and then two more, and then two more, never exactly the same ones; something that serves as a link.

More that the midpoint between homegrown and anglo their tongue is a nebulous territory between what is dying out and what is not yet born. But not a hecatomb. Makina senses in their tongue not a sudden absence but a shred metamorphosis, a self-defensive shift. They might be talking in perfect latin tongue and without warning begin to talk in perfect anglo tongue and keep it up like that, alternating between a thing that believes itself to be perfect and a thing that believes itself to be perfect,morphing between two beasts until out of carelessness or clear intent they suddenly stop switching tongues and start speaking that other one. In it brims nostalgia for the land they left or never knew when they use the words with which they name objects; while actions are alluded to with an anglo verb conjugated latin-style, pinning on a sonorous tail from back there.

Using in one tongue the word for a thing in the other makes the attributes of both resound: if you say Give me fire when they say Give me a light, what is not to be learned about fire, light and the act of giving? It’s not another way of saying things: these are new things. The world happening anew, Makina realizes: promising other things, signifying other things, producing different objects. Who knows if they’ll last, who knows if these names will be adopted by all, she thinks, but there they are, doing their damnedest.”

Yuri Herrera, Signs Preceding the End of the World

We are to blame for this destruction, we who don’t speak your tongue and don’t know how to keep quiet either. We who didn’t come by boat, who dirty up your doorsteps with our dust, who break your barbed wire. We who came to take your jobs, who dream of of wiping your shit, who long to work all hours. We who fill your shiny clean streets with the smell of food, who brought you violence you’d never known, who deliver your dope, who deserve to be chained by neck and feet. We who are happy to die for you, what else could we do? We. the ones who are waiting for who knows what. We, the dark, the short, the greasy, the shifty, the fat, the anemic. We the barbarians.” — Yuri Herrera, Signs Preceding the End of the World

“Morris mingles. He meets the housekeeper, an Iranian girl with a long pour of hair on her like black honey. In the course of their conversation he learns she has no complete language. She was born in Tehran, but her family moved to Hamburg when she was two. At seven she was taken to Montreal, at twelve to Vancouver. Each language – Persian, German, French, English – was a box she tried to break out of, boxes nested inside the next, like a Chinese puzzle. She is a delicious horror.” — “Black” by Annabel Lyon
“There is nary a crossroads or clearing in Cherokee County that hasn’t been watered by blood at time or another. As soon as the Tearful Trail emptied its diaspora into these woodlands, the Cherokees started erasing the slateboards with blood feuds and secret society assassinations. Bowie knives found jugular veins and musketeer ambuscades emptied saddles along deer trails. When the accounts finally settled, it was civil war time. Cherokee and Mvskoke and Missouri guerrilla and Texas cavalry and bound African shot and hacked and slashed and burnt against Kansas Jayhawker and union infantry and blue-uniformed freedmen. Stand Watie and his men were the last to leave the grey war path and the snow and rain comforted the traces of common graves and homesteads burnt to ashes.” — “The Long Rifle Season” by James Murray