One last passage from Rick Moody's Demonology. While this excerpt is not representative of the entire short story, I think it is beautifully written:
p. 251
I refused to let him touch me as I cried, as I also refused to use tears strategically, they were just how i felt and I would not conceal it, they were a condensation and displacement, sure, but they required no action, and I was, it's true, a woman with a doctoral degree who believed against all reasonable evidence that there must have been some justifiability to the Western tradition of marriage, and who happened now to be crying, and who happened to be sad more often than not, who happened to have a striping of mascara on her cheeks, okay, but this only made him madder still, and there was a whole elegant spray of his logic about how feminine language undoes the proper meaning of words, of nouns....
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