“The buck stops here," Ronan said, pulling up the hand brake. "Home shit home.”
“The buck stops here.”
“It's over. Go home."His eyebrows pulled in. "You're my home.”
“Who here wants to be a writer?' I asked. Everyone in the room raised his hand. 'Why the hell aren't you home writing?' I said, and left the stage.”
“He put a hand on his throat, as though trying to stop the words, but they came anyway. "You're home. To me.”
“She had stayed home and worked hard and a posthumous recognition had eventually followed. Not that Buck hadn't worked hard, sure he did, but in the end the body won't hold up as a work of art.”