Nobody trusts a writer, but they will generally talk themselves into cooperating if you let them.

The train pulled into the quiet riverside station. A large man climbed out, carrying a battered suitcase. He was alone, a fact observed with puzzlement by the person waiting for him on the platform.

The Parkers, father and son, came over to introduce themselves when we moved in, five years ago. Dean, the father, was slow to speak, awkward when he did. But Rick was talkative, his eyes roving

Joseph Nagel slumped forward, head in hands. “My God,” he groaned. Elise snapped off the car radio. “Calm down, Joseph.” “That’s four straight days since we got here.” “Joseph, please.” “What do you think 

 

My great-uncle Dominic, the inventor, took me into the small workshop that stood between the back of his house and the large kitchen garden behind it.

Celan's,
meeting with Heidegger:
by John Felstiner's account

Not the abrupt way, frozen
In the one glance of a painter’s frame,
Christ in the doorway pointing, Matthew’s face

Spirit and form; to every soul its shell;
Sounds their instruments—flute, double bass,
Trumpet, each instrument its plush-lined case,

Their lives are turning into gold. The door
Bristles with brass, its own commissionaire—
A valedictory hand swims up