Book of the Day Archive

We shot dogs. Not by accident. We did it on purpose, and we called it Operation Scooby.

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle, and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic Darkness, had found a yellow metal.

It was a dark and stormy night.

My name is India Opal Buloni, and last summer my daddy, the preacher, sent me to the store for a box of macaroni-and-cheese, some white rice, and two tomatoes and I came back with a dog.

Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes.

The drought had lasted now for ten million years, and the reign of the terrible lizards had long since ended.

First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack.

A mouse was looking at Mario. The mouse’s name was Tucker, and he was sitting in the opening of an abandoned drainpipe in the subway station in Times Square.

I was not there, yet I was there.