Joe Hill

HOW MAY THE DEAD HAVE DESTINATIONS?
—Alan Moore, Voice of the Fire

Jude didn’t care what was reasonable. He wasn’t a reasonable man. He only cared what was true.

There’s something horribly unfair about dying in the middle of a good story, before you have a chance to see how it all comes out.

I suppose everyone always dies in the middle of a good story, in a sense. Your own story. Or the story of your children. Or your grandchildren. Death is a raw deal for narrative junkies.”

“We aren’t here to get a treat,” Captain America told her. “We’re here to give you one.

She had thought Jason Patric, or maybe young Johnny Depp for him, someone dark and wiry who looked like he could do a handstand and who might occasionally write poetry.

He could not resist lecturing her, even in the last minutes of her life, and it came to her then that she hadn’t been in love with him for years. He was a tiresome know-it-all.

It was a wonder, how much information could pass between two people in a single glance, without a word being said.

Whenever they went somewhere, they bought a bottle of wine, the way other people bought fridge magnets.

I told you had to be some kind of karmic opposite to the words I love you.