The World Is the Home of Love and Death. Harold Brodkey

thoughts to think and see and to change things. I listen to her before I think, if you know what I mean. “I have no talent as a nurse, I’m no good with plants, either.” I simply stare at her. And the heaves stop. Her voice is a mixture of brilliant little tones; it is bruisedly soft. “But I’m a real lifesaver, many have said so, and I tend to agree; I don’t mind tooting my own horn: I’m not the worst person to have in your corner.”

      I’m a child: I don’t know very much. I can have very odd forms of truth.