“It (a singer's voice) sounds as if it was aged in a whiskey cask, cured in an Ozarks smokehouse, dropped down a stone well, pulled out damp, and kept moist in the palm of a wicked woman's hand.”

“My, aren't we bold with well-aged whiskey?”

“The truth, she found, felt smooth, like a skipping stone in the palm of your hand.”

“I didn’t know then that young girls were a sort of poison, infectious to the man of age; and that men of age justly take woman of age to cure themselves of the diseases of youth.”

“There was no water at my grandfather’swhen I was a kid and would go for itwith two zinc buckets. Down the path,past the cow by the foundation wherethe fine people’s house was beforethey arranged to have it burned down.To the neighbor’s cool well. Wouldcome back with pails too heavy,so my mouth pulled out of shape.I see myself, but from the outside.I keep trying to feel who I was,and cannot. Hear clearly the soundthe bucket made hitting the sidesof the stone well going down,but never the sound of me.”

“Curing RM is in the realm of magical pixies and talking dogs that piss whiskey. It's impossible.”