… on the lawn one late summer day, her pale hair tangled because she’d cry if anyone tried to brush it, spinning around and around until she got so dizzy she fell in a pile...

If flip flops were oppressive, I wouldn’t wear any. I’d go around showing of my bare feet of freedom. And I’d tell everyone that freedom causes blisters.

I likened her to the slender PSYCHÉ and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: The dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened...