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Book: Birds of America: Stories
Quotes of Book: Birds of America: Stories

Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
There were about thirty-five people, all of them middle-aged, with the academic's strange mixed expression of merriment and weariness. "A cross between flirtation and a fender bender," Martin had described it once.
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
The speech she made was done in the back, alone, like little shoes cobbled by an elf: spider is to web as weaver is to blank. That one was hers. She was proud of that. Also, blank is to heartache as forest is to bench.
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
I am thinking not only of my own body here, that unbeguilable, broken basket, that stiff meringue. I am not, Patrick, thinking only of myself, my lost troupe, my empty bed. I am thinking of the dancing body's magnificent and ostentatious scorn. This is how we offer ourselves, enter heaven, enter speaking: we say with motion, in space, This is what life's done so far down here; this is all and what and everything it's managed-this body, these bodies, that body-so what do you think, Heaven? What do you fucking think?
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
Years later, when they were killed in a car crash on the Farm to Market Road, and the Nell-that-never-lived died with them, Olena, numbly rearranging the letters of her own name on the envelopes of the sympathy cards she received, discovered what the letters spelled: Olena; Alone."
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
No matter what terror or loveliness the earth could produce-winds, seas-a person could produce the same, lived with the same, lived with all that mixed-up nature swirling inside, every bit.
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
The speech she made was done in the back, alone, like little shoes cobbled by an elf: spider is to web as weaver is to blank. That one was hers. She was proud of that. Also, blank is to heartache as forest is to bench. But
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
She hadn't been given the proper tools to make a real life with, she decided, that was it. She'd been given a can of gravy and a hairbrush and told, "There you go." She'd stood there for years, blinking and befuddled, brushing the can with the brush. Still,
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
This lunge at moral fastidiousness was something she'd noticed a lot in the people around here. They were not good people. They were not kind. They played around and lied to their spouses. But they recycled their newspapers!
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
Get a Job, she shouted silently to God. Get a real Job.
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Lorrie Moore _ Birds of America: Stories
She had already-carefully, obediently-stepped through all the stages of bereavement: anger, denial, bargaining, Häagen-Dazs, rage.
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