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“I wander cowboy sidewalks of wood, wearing a too-small hat, filled with remorse for the many lives I failed to lead.”
― CivilWarLand in Bad Decline
― CivilWarLand in Bad Decline
“Oil painting, before anything else, was a celebration of private property. As an art-form it derived from the principle that you are what you have.”
― Ways of Seeing
― Ways of Seeing
“I also forgot to say that the account that is soon going to have to start -- since I can no longer withstand the pressure of the facts -- the account that soon is going to have to start is written with the sponsorship of the most popular soft drink in the world even though it's not paying me a cent, a soft drink distributed in every country. Moreover it's the same soft drink that sponsored the last earthquake in Guatemala. Even though it tastes like nail polish, Aristolino soap and chewed plastic. None of this keeps everyone from loving it with servility and subservience. Also because -- and now I'm going to say something difficult that only I understand -- because this drink which contains coca is today. It's a way for a person to be up-to-date and in the now.”
― The Hour of the Star
― The Hour of the Star
“I categorically declare first my absolute innocence, second my lack of criminal intent, and third my effusive apologies.”
― Cugel the Clever
― Cugel the Clever
“We can ask and ask but we can't have again what once seemed ours for ever - the way things looked, that church alone in the fields, a bed on a belfry floor, a remembered voice, the touch of a hand, a loved face. They've gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass.
All this happened so long ago. And I never returned, never wrote, never met anyone who might have given me news of Oxgodby. So, in memory, it stays as I left it, a sealed room furnished by the past, airless, still, ink long dry on a put-down pen.
But this was something I knew nothing of as I closed the gate and set off across the meadow.”
― A Month in the Country
All this happened so long ago. And I never returned, never wrote, never met anyone who might have given me news of Oxgodby. So, in memory, it stays as I left it, a sealed room furnished by the past, airless, still, ink long dry on a put-down pen.
But this was something I knew nothing of as I closed the gate and set off across the meadow.”
― A Month in the Country
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