Nowdays, Rosie the Rivetere was a former soccer mom who had just opened her own catering business when Last Night came down and her husband and kids were eaten by a parking attendant at the local megamall’s discount- appliance emporium.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés apocalypse zombie zone-one-a-novel rosie-the-rivetere
Mark Spitz didn't ask about Harry. You never asked about the characters that disappeared from a Last Night story. You knew the answer. The plague had a knack for narrative closure.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés stories humour grief apocalypse
Mark Spitz had met plenty of the divine-retribution folks over the months. This was their moment; they were umbrella salesmen standing outside a subway entrance in a downpour. The human race deserved the plague, we brought it on ourselves for poisoning the planet, for the Death of God, the calculated brutalities of the global economic system, for driving primordial species to extinction: the entire collapse of values as evidenced by everything from nuclear fission to reality television to alternate side of the street parking. Mark Spitz could only endure these harangues for a minute or two before he split. It was boring.The plague was the plague. You were wearing galoshes, or you weren't.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés apocalypse blame zombies devine-retribution
He told himself: Hope is a gateway drug, don't do it.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés hope
Pain could be killed. Sadness could not, but the drugs did shut its mouth for a time.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés pain sadness drugs medication antidepressants
...and for the second time that day he blesses the certainty of airports because he can always turn around and go someplace else.
Colson WhiteheadBut it's like riding a bike. A hell-bike, made out of hell.
Colson WhiteheadWhat does the perfect elevator look like, the one that will deliver us from the cities we suffer now, these stunted shacks? We don't know because we can't see inside it, it's something we cannot imagine, like the shape of angels' teeth. It's a black box.
Colson WhiteheadLife! What Inscrutable Card Shall Ye Throw Next Upon the Soft Felt of Our Days?
Colson WhiteheadMots clés nonfiction gaming cards poker
They jostled one another, competed for space below as they did above, in a minuet of ruin and triumph. In the subway, down in the dark, no citizen was more significant or more decrepit than another. All were smeared into a common average of existence, the A's and the C's tumbling or rising to settle into a ruthless mediocrity. No escape.
Colson WhiteheadMots clés humanity
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