Two more stories:
William Faulkner's "Shingles for the Lord" (16 pages)
"Arsonist," he said. "Work units. Dog units. And now arsonist. I Godrey, what a day!"
Karen Russell's "The Star-Gazer's Log of Summer-Time Crime" (30 pages)
I should feel good, I guess, but instead I feel this awful loneliness, an outlaw's loneliness, lying to the person I love best in the world. It's too easy to use his love to fool him. I almost want to be found out and grounded. I don't know why my father believes me. I don't know what the other kids tell their parents they do at night.
And two Edward Hoagland essays from The Art of the Personal Essay:
"The Courage of Turtles" (six pages)
Turtles are a kind of bird with the governor turned low.
"The Threshold and the Jolt of Pain" (six pages)
So pain is a packet of chiseling tools. . . . Pain, love, boredom, and glee, and anticipation or anxiety--these are the pilings we build our lives from In love we beget more love and in pain we beget more pain. Since we must like it or lump it, we like it. And why not, indeed?
Anyone read Hoagland? I really liked the turtle essay.