"AD 2293. Late March."

Trouble's Daughter: The Story of Susanna Hutchinson, Indian Captive

"At about nine-thirty she heard a rifle shot off to the northeast and suspected Marcia had scored. Sarah glassed a group of about fifteen antelope running toward the south that unfortunately would not be coming close to her. The wind rose and she backed into the juniper bush for shelter, looking down at a jackrabbit skull and part of its skeleton. After a while during which Marcia gutted the animal, she was visible heading toward Sarah alternately carrying the antelope for a hundred yards then dragging it a hundred yards. That was true Marcia, Sarah thought. How many fifteen-year-old girls can carry a hundred pound antelope?"

"A splendid and very unusual entry into the private life of the distant past."
- New York Times Book Review

(The Scarecrow's Daughter)

'The end-run of an ancient plot against God required the services of an innocent-looking black Cadillac at the far end of Springfield Boulevard in Queens. Countless Jews and gentiles who loved God very much had woven together this plot over the ages.

. . .

"How did you know?"

"I'm gifted, and you're a schmuck."'

"The only child she's seen here is Cara Ferris."

"Can I play with her yet?" Abby asked. Cara lived next door, and had blond ringlets, and had marched at the head of the Fourth of July parade, twirling a baton, as Miss Hermosa Beach Recreation. Abby worshipped her.

"Not until you're better, sweetheart," Yvette said.

"But Cara's had chicken pox," the doctor said.

"Her mother said it was such a slight case she could get it again."

Dr. Nye made a little scoffing noise. "Just keep Abby home," he said, "and use calamine. I'll pronounce her not contagious as soon as I can, and she can play with Miss Recreation."

"But there was one patient in particular who kept popping up in his mind. It was a recent case from about a year ago, which he couldn't seem to shake. It involved a thirty-year-old, stand up comedian named David Freid, who had come to the hospital by court order after having stolen a caseload of sperm samples. What a truly odd individual, recalled Dr. Feinlein, smiling thoughtfully, as the warmth of the wine circulated through his veins. The judge thought David's problems were more psychiatric than criminal, and after their first session together, Dr. Feinlein was very much inclined to agree. Actually, David hadn't stolen the sperm sample as much as he had kidnapped them. He was holding them as ransom to win the love a girl. But this wasn't just any girl, recalled Dr. Feinlein, becoming suddenly enthused and eagerly taking out his notebook and pen. It was the daughter of his urologist, for crying out loud!"

Ms. Byrne pounded some more. Frustrated, she muttered, "Apparently not. He's supposed to have an Indian partner who lives near him. Willie Sees the Night, if you can believe that."

"Better than Willie Humps His Dog."

"Cute," she said dryly. "I wonder if this is the place."

"I bet it is," Hart said. "But it looks abandoned to me. Look at the weeds. Ass deep to a tall squaw."

"Whorehouse Meadow, Jump-Off Joe Creek. Now there's a classy address. Can you imagine the kind of people who live out here in all this isolation? What do they do?"

"They listen to the wind in the treetops. Ghosts. Whoooooooooooo! That and pull their lonely little peepees." Hart laughed.

Ms. Byrne was in no mood for humor.

"'And the dynasty. Don't forget that,' my mother interrupted. 'It is for the house of Romanov, and for you, Nicky.'
My father smiled gently, as he always did when reminded that he, the emperor, was the focus of veneration. 'My people are loyal,' he said. 'They may complain, they may go on strike and march in protest and even throw bombs, but when the nation needs them, they respond.'"

"The morgue attendant bobbed his head in acknowledgment of her dry anguish. 'It was a squeeze to put him in.'"

"It was the aroma. The exotic scent of spices: rich, alluring, and almost magical. A scent that would sometimes overpower the freshness in the air and sometimes subtly mingle with it to create a tantalizing bouquet. A scent that would always bring me back to my childhood. My life has been symbiotic with that of spices. Growing up as a spice merchant's daughter in a rustic, British colonial house in Malaysia may seem like a world away, but to this day memories of my childhood come flooding in with even the slightest whiff of spice.

Jade-green lime and tamarind trees lined the cobbled driveway leading to our main house; the sweet-smelling tamarind pods hung like garlands from the trees, welcoming the constant throngs of visitors who must have felt as if they were entertaining my mother's secret spice domain."

"And the Spaniards themselves, who in the name of mercy have wrought cruelties greater than any that were done by the benighted Aztecs, who in the name of Christ daily violate His law to the uttermost extreme, say shall they prosper, shall their evildoing bring them welfare? I am old and cannot live to see the question answered, though even now it is in the way of answering. Yet I know that their wickedness shall fall upon their own heads, and I seem to see them, the proudest of the peoples of the earth, bereft of fame and wealth and honour, a starveling remnant happy in nothing save their past. What Drake began at Gravelines God will finish in many another place and time, till at last Spain is of no more account and lies as low as the empire of Montezuma lies today."

"Mac, Caris's father and the taxi driver, is a wonderful study in vulnerability. Stella, his elder daughter, lives up to her name by playing Lady Macbeth (none of the family attends) and being chosen to represent the school at a national science conference. She is both a point of reference in an inarticulate world for the reader and hugely annoying. This probably sounds pretty depressing."

-- The Observer