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    一个圣诞节的回忆
去年夏天这所房子里的其他人跟我们讲好，每打死二十五只苍蝇，他们付我们一分。哦，那场八月屠杀！飞去天堂的苍蝇们！这样的工作不会让我们觉得有面子。并且，我们数钱的时候，感觉像在数苍蝇的尸体。
水果蛋糕所包含的各种成分里，威士忌最贵，也最难弄到，因为州法律禁止酒类销售。
一个人在生活中得不到他想要的东西，这已经够糟糕了。可是很讨厌，令我气恼的是不能送给别人你希望他拥有的东西。总有一天我会的，巴迪。
“天，我好傻啊！”我朋友大叫着，忽然间警醒起来，就像一个女人很迟才记起烤箱里的面饼。“你知道我总在想什么吗？”她眼含微笑，望着上面的某一点而不是我，用一种发现的口吻问，“我原来总是想，一个人总要生病，垂死，然后才见到主。我想象主降临的光景，应该就像看见浸礼会的窗子一样，像阳光穿泻而过的那些彩色玻璃一样美丽。那种光亮让你不知道天已暗下来。想到这样的光亮会带走所有诡异的感觉，是一种安慰。但我现在打赌不是这样的，我打赌一个人临终时分会意识到主早就显现过。看到这些——”她的手打了个圈，把云、风筝、草地和往骨头上耙土的奎妮都包括进来——“他们总能看见的东西，就是看见了主。就我而言，我可以眼含着今天的情景离开世界。”
这是我们在一起的最后一个圣诞节。 生活分开了我们。
这事发生时，我是知道的。一条简单的口信证实了体内某根隐秘的血管已经接收到的讯息，割去了我生命中不可替代的一部分，让它像断线的风筝一样远去。这也是为什么，在这个特别的十二月的早晨，走过一个学校校园时，我不停地在天空中搜寻。就好像我希望看见，如相偎之心，一对迷失的风筝正一路赶去天堂。
一个圣诞节
我说：“圣诞老人是有的，因为他的所作所为都是主的意志，而主的意志无论如何都是真的。”
我一上到巴士里，就蜷缩在位子上，闭着眼睛。我感到一种最为莫名的痛楚。紧迫的痛感传遍全身。我想如果脱掉笨重的城市皮靴，那折磨人的妖怪，那种疼痛就会减轻。我脱了鞋，但那神秘的痛楚没有消失。从某种意义上说，它从未消失；永远也不会。
感恩节来客
“你不了解，你从来没恨过别人。” “是的，我从来没有。分给我们每个人在地球上的时间都有限，我不想让上帝看到我以这样的方式消耗自己的时间。”
除了她自己和我之外，我无法想象苏柯小姐能够和什么人维持这么长的一次谈话。（她经常自言自语，这是有着孤独天性的正常人的一种习惯。）她回来的时候，看上去筋疲力尽。
可是奥德的阴影还在，一个一头红发的剪影笼罩在我快乐的边缘。我也很好奇他妈妈对他的那番描述，我想知道他是否真的有另外一面，邪恶之中还保留着一点人性。这不可能！谁要是这么相信，那么他就会在吉卜赛人到镇上来的时候，不锁门就离开家。你只要看看他那副样子就够了。
岛是我给房子里一个地方取的名字，当我感到忧伤或者莫名兴奋，或者只是想考虑一些事情的时候，我就会去那里。那是一个连着卫生间的巨大壁橱。
虽然从未讨论过到达新奥尔良之后我们能做什么，或者胸针款用完了之后我们何以为生，但我们都很珍视这个幻想。也许我们两个心里都知道这个胸针只是一个西尔斯·罗巴克公司卖的新巧小玩意。但还是一样，它在我们眼中似乎是一样具有真正魔力的法宝，虽未检验过，但如果我们真的决定到外面寓言般的世界里去碰碰运气的话，它就是一种能承诺我们自由的魔法。因此我朋友从来不戴着它，那是太珍贵的宝物，我们冒不起丢失或者毁坏的风险。
她只去了一分钟，可她的消失似乎持续了一万年。敌意萌发，又顺着餐桌蔓延，就像一根以不可思议的速度迅速生长的棘藤，可被困在藤蔓里的却不是被告，而是他的原告。我胃里直犯恶心。可那一边奥德却平静得像具尸体。
这是值得的，只要能见到B叔发现我冰冷而僵硬地躺在地板上时的悔恨；这是值得的，为了听到我的棺材下到墓穴底下时人们的恸哭和奎妮的嗥叫。 只有一个忽然的想法把我拉住：我不会听得到这些的，我都死了，怎么听得到呢？除非你能看见哀悼者的悔恨和负疚，做死人显然没有什么能令人满足的地方。
不管他出于什么原因，我们本是没法揣测的。这就是为什么你想做的事情就更错了：你故意想要让他难堪。这是故意的。听我说，巴迪：只有一种罪不能被原谅，那就是故意的残忍。所有其他都能被原谅。这个永远不会。你理解我吗，巴迪？” 我理解，模糊地。时间过去了，我明白她是对的。可那时我能理解的，是因为我的报复失败了，我的方法肯定错了。奥德·汉得森——他怎么做到的？为什么？——表现得比我好，甚至比我更诚实。
A CHRISTMAS MEMORY
“Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it's fruitcake weather!” 
The person to whom she is speaking is myself.
Dusk turns the window into a mirror: our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last, when the moon is quite high, we toss the final hull into the fire and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty, the bowl is brimful.
If only I could, Buddy. It's bad enough in life to do without something you want;but confound it, what gets my goat is not being able to give somebody something you want them to have. 
I have a new home too. But it doesn't count. Home is where my friend is, and there I never go.
A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself,letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. 
ONE CHRISTMAS
It was pure torture, being pulled along the streets of New Orleans in those tightly laced, hot as hell, heavy as lead shoes. I don't know what was worse—the shoes or the food.
“Of course there is a Santa Claus. It's just that no single somebody could do all he has to do. So the Lord has spread the task among us all. That's why everybody is Santa Claus. I am. You are.
THE THANKSGIVING VISITOR
Not that I was unhappy there; indeed, moments of those few years turned out to be the happiest part of an otherwise difficult childhood, mainly because the youngest of the cousins, a woman in her sixties, became my first friend. As she was a child herself (many people thought her less than that, and murmured about her as though she were the twin of poor nice Lester Tucker, who roamed the streets in a sweet daze), she understood children, and under-stood me absolutely.
what I resented and suffered from most was the sense of dour expectations he induced.
Innocence, preserved by the absence of experience that had always isolated Miss Sook, left her incapable of encompassing an evil so complete.
The realization arrived in a quiet way and was not the outcome of unhappy midnight wakings or pleading scenes with Uncle B. 
At first I was unable to believe she meant her request as something more than a sample of poor-taste humor; but then, seeing that she was serious, I realized, with bewilderment, that we were edging toward a falling-out.
My rudeness obliterated her timidity
Hostility sprouted and surged around the table like a thorn-encrusted vine growing with uncanny speed—and the victim trapped in its tendrils was not the accused, but his accuser. Stomach sickness gripped me;Odd, on the other hand, seemed calm as a corpse.
And then, damn his soul, he walked right out of there.
Now listen to me, Buddy: there is only one unpardonable sin—deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven. That, never.