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"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes." "It's sort of what we have instead of God." — Ernest Hemingway |
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| Well, something's gone rather amiss. Did I just...did I just read Hemingway and thoroughly enjoy it? Well, I never. Slowly dragging my feet into modern literature, I guess I must admit that not all sentences can go on for half-paragraphs, and sometim...more | |
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| If you've ever found yourself in a quandry over the state of today's youth, fear not! They were always as bad. 1887, and at least one child has nary an idea who Abraham Lincoln was, writing him a hilarious new biography (Wales, the 1500s, and railroa...more | |
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| This was an entirely charming read. Admittedly, I'm something of a sucker for vaudeville tales, but this brought a new warmth to them that I hadn't previously encountered with such veracity. My feelings on Eddie Cantor were already immensely positive...more | |
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I picked this up due to a man disrecommending me it, wandering away from me across the library as he shouted his disapproval. I could hardly not give it a read after such a startling introduction. It was a very quick read, more distressing than amusin...more |
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| McKean's art puts me in mind of feverish nightmares. There's something entirely haunting and enveloping about his art, which I find to push this book more into realms of the Great than Gaiman's writing (though I adore him). The story is a simple one,...more | |
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“You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
“You have to let other people be right' was his answer to their insults. 'It consoles them for not being anything else.”
― AndrĂ© Gide, The Immoralist
― AndrĂ© Gide, The Immoralist
“The idea that one will die is more painful than dying, but less painful than the idea that another person is dead, that, becoming once more a still, plane surface after having engulfed a person, a reality extends, without even a ripple at the point of disappearance from which that person is excluded, in which there no longer exists any will, any knowledge, and from which it is as difficult to reascend to the idea that that person has lived as, from the still recent memory of his life, it is to think that he is comparable with the insubstantial images, the memories, left us by the characters in a novel we have been reading.”
― Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
― Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
“The bonds between ourselves and another person exists only in our minds. Memory as it grows fainter loosens them, and notwithstanding the illusion by which we want to be duped and which, out of love, friendship, politeness, deference, duty, we dupe other people, we exist alone. Man is the creature who cannot escape from himself, who knows other people only in himself, and when he asserts the contrary, he is lying.”
― Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
― Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time
“There was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. It was immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to live. Life was insignificant and death without consequence. Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for, if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did or left undone did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success amounted to nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the secret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over one another in Philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. He felt inclined to leap and sing. He had not been so happy for months.
'Oh, life,' he cried in his heart, 'Oh life, where is thy sting?”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage
'Oh, life,' he cried in his heart, 'Oh life, where is thy sting?”
― W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage
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