Sentences kick paragraphs' asses.
I remember reading Stein's How To Write--"a sentence is not emotional a paragraph is"--and disagreeing more than I usually do with her, not least because one of the most evocative sentences I've ever read was hers, when describing the interior of a house in "The Good Anna": And everywhere were little things that break.
Another favorite, from Vonnegut: Like so many Americans, she was trying to cobble together a life from things she had found in gift shops.
Yesterday, I stumbled on One Sentence, a blog that features "true stories, told in one sentence" (each from a different author). While some read like PostSecrets without the art ("He threw the condom out the car door when we were finished over a year ago, but I still feel guilty that I didn't stop him from littering"--can't you just see the postcard?), others are interesting as sentences-in-themselves:
The man's face was so badly decomposed that the cop asked me, "Well, does this look like something he would have done with his hair?"
I sat by a peat fire in Ireland and picked fat ticks off an orange cat with heated tweezers for three hours while reading Joyce. (ok, stopped believing at "Joyce"--but still fun)
It's the emptiest feeling in the world when you know your friends are out having fun, and you are at your dining room table, weeping and scrapbooking. (the "scrapbooking" seals it for me)
I was closing a cereal box one night when I became very aware of my height.
So I told her "When you go to college try to send me a letter."
I realized it was Sunday when I drove up to Chick-fil-a and it was closed.
Worth adding to your feeds, I think.