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Quote by Horace McCoy

“It's peculiar to me,' she said, 'that everybody pays so much attention to living and so little to dying. Why are these high-powered scientists always screwing around trying to prolong life instead of finding pleasant ways to end it? There must be a hell of a lot of people in the world like me - who want to die but haven't got the guts -”

Quote by Horace McCoy

Book:They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
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Work

They Shoot Horses, Don't They?

This novel delves into the lives of contestants in a grueling dance marathon during the Great Depression, using the extreme competition as a lens to examine the desperation and dehumanization of the time. more

Author

Horace McCoy
Horace McCoy

Horace McCoy was an American writer known for his profound depiction of the poverty-stricken life in the American Midwest. His works often focused on the lives of the socially marginalized, particularly those struggling to survive during the Great Depression of the 20th century. His most famous work, 'They Shoot Horses, Don't They?', received widespread acclaim for its insightful portrayal of social reality. more

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Book:Essays After Eighty
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“MOTHER – By Ted Kooser Mid April already, and the wild plums bloom at the roadside, a lacy white against the exuberant, jubilant green of new grass and the dusty, fading black of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet, only the delicate, star-petaled blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume. You have been gone a month today and have missed three rains and one nightlong watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar from six to eight while fat spring clouds went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured, a storm that walked on legs of lightning, dragging its shaggy belly over the fields. The meadowlarks are back, and the finches are turning from green to gold. Those same two geese have come to the pond again this year, honking in over the trees and splashing down. They never nest, but stay a week or two then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts, burning in circles like birthday candles, for this is the month of my birth, as you know, the best month to be born in, thanks to you, everything ready to burst with living. There will be no more new flannel nightshirts sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand. You asked me if I would be sad when it happened and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner, as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that. Were it not for the way you taught me to look at the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever.”

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Book:Delights and Shadows
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