Beatrix

“(And did I mention how in summer the streets of Smyrna were lined with baskets of rose petals? And how everyone in the city could speak French, Italian, Greek, Turkish, English, and Dutch? And did I tell you about the famous figs, brought in by camel caravan and dumped onto the ground, huge piles of pulpy fruit lying in the dirt, with dirty women steeping them in salt water and children squatting to defecate behind the clusters? Did I mention how the reek of the fig women mixed with pleasanter smells of almond trees, mimosa, laurel, and peach, and how everybody wore masks on Mardi Gras and had elaborate dinners on the decks of frigates? I want to mention these things because they all happened in that city that was no place exactly, that was part of no country because it was all countries, and because now if you go there you'll see modern high-rises, amnesiac boulevards, teeming sweatshops, a NATO headquarters, and a sign that says Izmir...)”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

“Being somewhere but not completely: that was home for Danny, and it sure as hell was easier to land than a decent apartment. All he needed was a cell phone, or I-access, or both at once, or even just a plan to leave wherever he was and go someplace else really really soon. Being in one place and thinking about another place could make him feel at home.”
― Jennifer Egan, The Keep

“You are driving home.
You listen to ‘Tongue Tied’ by Grouplove.
Someone side-swipes the Ferrari.
You almost strike three pedestrians and crash into a Dunkin’ Donuts.
This is somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge and you find out—later—the lady who hit you, she died.
She was old.
“Wasn’t wearing her glasses,” someone on the street says.
“She was basically driving blind,” the police officer says. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier.”
An EMT examines you.
You try and act normal.
“Am I hurt?” you ask.
“You’re not hurt,” the EMT says.
You talk to the cops.
“Am I in trouble?” you ask.
“You’re not in trouble,” a young cop says.
You freak out a little.
You can smell pomade in your sweat.
“Everything is under control,” someone says—another police officer.
You freak out some more.”
― Mike Kleine, Mastodon Farm

“Okay, I write overblown, purple, self-indulgent prose. So fucking what?”
― Angela Carter