Arm of the Sphinx (The Books of Babel, #2)

by Josiah Bancroft

Trust is a muscle that works best in reflex.

Every essential thing was present in the market, though never in very good condition. Whether a rivet or a kettle or a set of tongs, the blacksmith’s iron was always rusted. The clothier had plenty of shirts and pants for sale in a variety of inhuman sizes. A blue-skinned doctor sold a powerful tonic, which he promised would cure everything from gout to gunshots without a single side effect other than a slight (and attractive!) bluing of the complexion. Everything was bent, corroded, patched, and mismatched. Yet to a man without a country, the market was a garden of delights.

Omissions become lies, etc.

“You’re a funny-looking turnip,”

Ah, but the sweet respite of routine! Routine provided an authoritative, if temporary, answer to that most troubling of questions: What shall we do now?

An awesome lens through which to view the most banal question of humanity.

Byron burst into their suite like a figurine from a clock, come to hammer the bell.

I suspect that a society might endure for ten thousand years and still fall apart in the span of one day. How flimsy is the veil of civility!

Hope. What is its dimension? How long is it? Where does it lead? When does it become habitual, automatic, the answer not only to doubt, but also to action, and redemption, and living?

The status quo is just a pleasing synonym for decay.