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Weimaraner
Twice in one day?
The crates served as tables.
Vanessa and bridgette?
Libertyphone,
Even the famous one, the one can only speak German, boy, did he throw in the towel.
He’d been a stand-by of the Sunday supplements ever since, a consequence that had gathered hurricane momentum when, still a schoolboy, he had caused his godfather-custodian to be arrested on charges of sodomy.
This sentence confuses me
But I haven’t any right to give him one: he’ll have to wait until he belongs to somebody.
You’re afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don’t know what it is.
go to Tiffany’s. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there,
an unnerving brat-whine
Is he describing himself in a self dedpracating way? Truman as rusty i mean?
mutually incoherent,
Papadaddy Wildwood
One could see that Holly had a laundry problem; the room was strewn, like a girl’s gymnasium.
I dont see the problem -_-
Promise you’ll never put a living thing in it.”
She was, I decided, “a crude exhibitionist,” “a time waster,” “an utter fake”: someone never to be spoken to again.
Classic. I know some
But, Doc, I’m not fourteen any more, and I’m not Lulamae. But the terrible part is (and I realized it while we were standing there) I am. I’m still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.”
an amusing misdemeanor too complicated to recount here.
Wtf gonna leave us hanging. Also side note, if recommending this book to people, warn them that holly says some racist stuff and marries a potential nazi sympathizer...i cant remember what was said previously about the nazi sympathy
“absurd foetus,”
Damn
Margaret Thatcher Fitzhue Wildwood.
Ope! Nvm
not counting anything that happened before I was thirteen because, after all, that just doesn’t count.
the old clap-yo’-hands
A person ought to be able to marry men or women or—listen, if you came to me and said you wanted to hitch up with Man O’ War, I’d respect your feeling. No, I’m serious. Love should be allowed. I’m all for it.
A bicon
the 30th of September, my birthday,
like savage members of a jungle ambush, a band of Negro boys leapt out of the shrubbery along the path. Hooting,
Umm no sir. Why.
Never mind why, but once I walked from New Orleans to Nancy’s Landing, Mississippi, just under five hundred miles.
Interesting..
Flanked by potted plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warm-looking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now, certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.
Is this the end?
