“Grandma, please. It’s okay. Dad’s doing a great job. I give him kudos for at least being calm and rational, and not losing his temper with everyone around him who isn’t in childbirth. And he has yet to start shooting lighting bolts at people. Poor Damien still has a burn scar.” – Kat”

“Book light,” Grandma grumbles as I hurry her away from Dad’s boss and his wife. “Who the hell wantsa book light?”“Lots of people,” I say. “They are very handy things to have.”

“He has no talent at all, that boy! You, who are his friend, tell him, please, to give up painting.–--Manet to Monet, on Renoir---”

“He viewed us, as we passed him by,With calm and yet with questioning eye,But moveless still, as though the stoneWere portion of his being's own.”

“This is how Heaven works. They're practical. We are always looking for rays of light. For lightning bolts or burning bushes. But God is a worker, like us. He made the world — He didn't hire poor Indios to build it for him! God has worker's hands. Just remember — angels carry no harps. Angels carry hammers.”

“See, Cletus has this thing for cheese, but since he has no thumbs he has to have me give him his cheese on his food every night. If I die, no one else knows about Cletus and the cheese, and poor old Cletus would lose his mind. So I can’t die until he does. See how that works? (Jack)”