“Glen Hirshberg’s stories are haunting, absolutely, but not only because of the content.”

The most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.

Not getting bored of my own story and/or character is one of the main struggles.

I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

It’s such a fraught and exciting and kind of horrible time.

Listen. Look. Desire is a house. Desire needs closed space. Desire runs out of doors or windows, or slats or pinpricks, it can’t fit under the sky, too large. Close the doors. Close the windows.

When language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.

You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.

When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.

I have had with novel writing, and I have put to bed big chunks of work that just didn’t sustain my interest.

I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.

and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it’s giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.

As soon as you laugh from nerves or make a joke or say something just to say something or get all involved with the bushes, then you blow open a window in your house of desire and it can’t heat up as well. Cold draft comes in.

There’s a gift in your lap and it’s beautifully wrapped and it’s not your birthday.

Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children…

My lover is experiencing reverse evolution.

I love sex. It should be animalistic, it should be sadistic, it should at times be masochistic. There are few rules and moral conventions.

Activity and sadness are incompatible.

Happiness is a little bit of art on a sad day.

I am so saddened and grossed out by young women who look like creepy, old aliens because of their new Barbie noses and lips. Is that a smile or a grimace?

I’m sad for adults who want to be children. And children who want to be adults.

Over all crowds there seems to float a vague distress, an atmosphere of pervasive melancholy, as if any large gathering of people creates an aura of terror and pity.

Happy all the time even when she’s sad.

The sadness in her eyes was more beautiful than any sunrise.