The oblong of light is back and motes of dust swirl in the sunshine slating down the wall of books. Golden pollen.
One cannot cross the same river twice.
You know, having the roof over one’s head dependent upon the good offices of an employer is a loathsome way to live. Christ only knows how the serving classes stand it.
Soviet imperialism’s as bad as American capitalism.
I was tired of flying. Tired of that life, of the screams, of the faces, of the fame. So I quit. Fame molds itself onto your face. Then it molds your face.
Sit down a beat or two. Hold out your hands. Look.
I wonder if “Anchorite” means “anchorman,” or if it’s a Kiwi-ism or a rifle club–ism. Cambridge is full of insiders’ words to keep outsiders out.
They need shinier myths that will never be soiled by becoming true.
Prejudice is permafrost. Did.
You would think a place the size of England could easily hold all the happenings in one humble lifetime without much overlap – I mean, it’s not ruddy Luxembourg we live in – but no, we cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.
The pieces fell into place. I fell into pieces.
He whispers the verses as I recite, as if his voice is leaning on mine.
The colorblind get by just fine not knowing blue from purple.
Okay, so she’s mad as a sack of ferrets. Only I don’t tell her so ’cause I’d like more of that green tea.
Holly Sykes,” says Publicity Girl, falling down the sar-chasm.
The final drop shook free an earlier memory of blackness, inertia, gravity, of being trapped in another ford. Where was it? Who was it?
No more tatterdemalion a renegado I ever beheld, but Mr. Evans swore the quadroon, Barnabas, was “the fleetest sheepdog who ever ran upon two legs.
Why had Goose lied so? Why was he so determined no one.
You know, we are all of us writers, busy writing our own fictions about how the world is, and how it came to be this way. We concoct plots and ascribe motives that may, or may not, coincide with the truth.
Betty says, ‘Frank, hey, Frank, lend this guy seventy dollars!