They hadn’t forgotten but accommodated… So nothing was done. No decisions were made… They waited like fools, they sat on their hands like fools, and spoke, like fools… They waited to die, and we cannot blame them, because we would do the same, we do do the same.

Let’s say what we mean: animals are bled, skinned, and dismembered while conscious. It happens all the time, and the industry and the government know it.

You used to write such honest books. Honest and emotionally ambitious. Maybe they weren’t finding millions of readers. Maybe they weren’t making you rich. But they were making the world rich

I ripped the page from my book – “I don’t speak, I’m sorry.” – and used it to dry her cheeks, my explanation and apology ran down her face like mascara.

The disgraced Usurer Yankel D took the baby girl home that evening… He made a bed of crumpled newspaper in a deep baking pan and gently tucked it in the oven, so that she wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise of the small falls outside… When he pulled her out to feed her or just hold her, her body was tattooed with the newsprint… Sometimes he would rock her to sleep in his arms, and read her left to right, and know everything he needed to know about the world. If it wasn’t written on her, it wasn’t important to him.

He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

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