Quotes:
“Ah yes, I see the most beautiful summer morning of my life. The friends I know and love are all about me. Redwall, our home, is safe. The sun shines warmly upon us. Nature is ready to yield her bounty again in plenty this autumn. I have seen it all before, many times, and yet I never cease to wonder. Life is good, my friends. I leave it to you. Do not be sad, for mine is a peaceful rest.”
Quotes:
Bit by bit these poor people have given up everything else; but to this they cling with all the power of their souls—they cannot give up the veselija! To do that would mean, not merely to be defeated, but to acknowledge defeat—and the difference between these two things is what keeps the world going.
The veselija has come down to them from a far-off time; and the meaning of it was that one might dwell within the cave and gaze upon shadows, provided only that once in his lifetime he could break his chains, and feel his wings, and behold the sun; provided that once in his lifetime he might testify to the fact that life, with all its cares and its terrors, is no such great thing after all, but merely a bubble upon the surface of a river, a thing that one may toss about and play with as a juggler tosses his golden balls, a thing that one may quaff, like a goblet of rare red wine. Thus having known himself for the master of things, a man could go back to his toil and live upon the memory all his days.
In these chutes the stream of animals was continuous; it was quite uncanny to watch them, pressing on to their fate, all unsuspicious a very river of death. Our friends were not poetical, and the sight suggested to them no metaphors of human destiny; they thought only of the wonderful efficiency of it all.
nobody rose in Packingtown by doing good work. You could lay that down for a rule—if you met a man who was rising in Packingtown, you met a knave.
One of the first consequences of the discovery of the union was that Jurgis became desirous of learning English.
Yet the soul of Ona was not dead—the souls of none of them were dead, but only sleeping; and now and then they would waken, and these were cruel times. The gates of memory would roll open—old joys would stretch out their arms to them, old hopes and dreams would call to them, and they would stir beneath the burden that lay upon them, and feel its forever immeasurable weight. They could not even cry out beneath it; but anguish would seize them, more dreadful than the agony of death. It was a thing scarcely to be spoken—a thing never spoken by all the world, that will not know its own defeat.
They were beaten; they had lost the game, they were swept aside. It was not less tragic because it was so sordid, because it had to do with wages and grocery bills and rents. They had dreamed of freedom; of a chance to look about them and learn something; to be decent and clean, to see their child grow up to be strong. And now it was all gone—it would never be! They had played the game and they had lost.
Jurgis felt that these men were out of touch with the life they discussed, that they were unfitted to solve its problems; nay, they themselves were part of the problem—they were part of the order established that was crushing men down and beating them! They were of the triumphant and insolent possessors; they had a hall, and a fire, and food and clothing and money, and so they might preach to hungry men, and the hungry men must be humble and listen! They were trying to save their souls—and who but a fool could fail to see that all that was the matter with their souls was that they had not been able to get a decent existence for their bodies?
Part of the saloon-keeper’s business was to offer a home and refreshments to beggars in exchange for the proceeds of their foragings
Horse racing had once been a sport, but nowadays it was a business;
Not long after this, Jurgis, wearying of the risks and vicissitudes of miscellaneous crime, was moved to give up the career for that of a politician.
“You want to know more about Socialism?”
You might say that there was really but one Socialist principle—that of “no compromise,” which was the essence of the proletarian movement all over the world.
So far, the rule in America had been that one Socialist made another Socialist once every two years; and if they should maintain the same rate they would carry the country in 1912—though not all of them expected to succeed as quickly as that.
Schliemann called himself a “philosophic anarchist”; and he explained that an anarchist was one who believed that the end of human existence was the free development of every personality, unrestricted by laws save those of its own being.
First, that a Socialist believes in the common ownership and democratic management of the means of producing the necessities of life; and, second, that a Socialist believes that the means by which this is to be brought about is the class conscious political organization of the wage-earners.
“Bravo!” cried Schliemann, laughing. But the other was in full career—he had talked this subject every day for five years, and had never yet let himself be stopped. “This Jesus of Nazareth!” he cried. “This class-conscious working-man! This union carpenter! This agitator, law-breaker, firebrand, anarchist! He, the sovereign lord and master of a world which grinds the bodies and souls of human beings into dollars—if he could come into the world this day and see the things that men have made in his name, would it not blast his soul with horror?
To Lucas, the religious zealot, the co-operative commonwealth was the New Jerusalem, the kingdom of Heaven, which is “within you.” To the other, Socialism was simply a necessary step toward a far-distant goal, a step to be tolerated with impatience.
Since the same kind of match would light every one’s fire and the same-shaped loaf of bread would fill every one’s stomach, it would be perfectly feasible to submit industry to the control of a majority vote. There was only one earth, and the quantity of material things was limited. Of intellectual and moral things, on the other hand, there was no limit, and one could have more without another’s having less; hence “Communism in material production, anarchism in intellectual,” was the formula of modern proletarian thought.
Read with Laura!
Quotes:
Money problems can always be solved by a man not frightened by them.
“There is no such thing as luck; there is only adequate or inadequate preparation to cope with a statistical universe.
I had sent in five thousand seven hundred and eighty-two slogans.
The Mother Thing
Quotes:
It is perhaps simplistic, but nevertheless indicative, that our equivalent of “Give us this day our daily bread” is “Blessed art thou, O Lord, for bringing forth bread from the earth.”
Of necessity, since there were so few of us, it was set up as a Conservative synagogue so that the few older members who were likely to be Orthodox on the one hand and the Reform on the other, would not feel the service too strange.
“Do you think that the regulations–to pray, to keep the Sabbath, to fast on Yom Kippur–do you think these are good-luck charms?” the rabbi said. “God also gave you a mind to reason with and to use to protect the life He entrusted to your care.”
“Mr. Goralsky,” said the rabbi earnestly, “man was created in God’s image. So to disregard the health of the body that was entrusted to our care, God’s image, Mr. Goralsky, this is a serious sin.
When you accumulate the kind of money they have, you’re prepared to give some of it away. It’s expected of you. It goes with your status like Continentals and a uniformed chauffeur.
Anyone born of a Jewish mother, not father if you please, is automatically considered Jewish, provided”–he paused to emphasize the point–“that he has not repudiated his religion by conversion to another religion or by public disclaimer.”
I’ve never known a heavy drinker, what is apt to be called an alcoholic these days, I’ve never known one of them to commit suicide.
“It doesn’t say much about death,” she remarked, “Just praises God.
“Well, we believe in luck, you know.” “I suppose everyone does to some degree.” “No, I mean we believe in a way you Christians don’t. Your various doctrines–that God observes the fall of every sparrow, that you can change your misfortune by prayer–it all implies that when someone has bad luck he deserves it. But we believe in luck. That is, we believe it is possible for the truly good man to be unlucky, and vice versa. That’s one of the lessons we are taught by the Book of Job.
“Remember, Rabbi, just to put up a building, should be a building–this is foolish. Better in this place should be God’s grass and flowers.”
A book about important topics, such as suffering, promises and friendship. Somehow i didn't like it. Not my style, perhaps.
Quotes:
The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?
A color will be perched on my shoulder.
To most people, Hans Hubermann was barely visible. An un-special person. Certainly, his painting skills were excellent. His musical ability was better than average. Somehow, though, and I’m sure you’ve met people like this, he was able to appear as merely part of the background, even if he was standing at the front of a line. He was always just there. Not noticeable. Not important or particularly valuable.
When he turned the light on in the small, callous washroom that night, Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father’s eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver. Like soft silver, melting. Liesel, upon seeing those eyes, understood that Hans Hubermann was worth a lot.
“Schiller Strasse,” Rudy said. “The road of yellow stars.”
THE BOOK THIEF—LAST LINE I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
I am haunted by humans.
The life of a very settled Japanese man slowly spins into weirdness after his cat disappears. Cool, weird, and somewhat unsatisfactory as the pieces of the puzzle don't really fit together.
Quotes:
There was a small stand of trees nearby, and from it you could hear the mechanical cry of a bird that sounded as if it were winding a spring. We called it the wind-up bird. Kumiko gave it the name.
Going out to work can be tough, not something sweet and peaceful like picking the prettiest rose in your garden for your sick grandmother and spending the day with her, two streets away. Sometimes you have to do unpleasant things with unpleasant people, and the chance to call home never comes up.
“Don’t let it bother you. You’re not the only one. Tons of horses die when the moon’s full.”
Only much later did it occur to me that I had found my way into the core of the problem.
I owned a signed copy of Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain.
I knew the names of all the brothers Karamazov.
“Mr. Okada,” she said, “I believe that you are entering a phase of your life in which many different things will occur. The disappearance of your cat is only the beginning.”
“I do have one small bit of information that I can share with you,” Malta Kano said, looking down at me, after she had put on her red hat. “You will find your polka-dot tie, but not in your house.”
So this was how secrets got started, I thought to myself. People constructed them little by little.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had not heard the wind-up bird for quite some time.
“The little things are important, Mr. Wind-Up Bird,”
A certain kind of shittiness, a certain kind of stagnation, a certain kind of darkness, goes on propagating itself with its own power in its own self-contained cycle. And once it passes a certain point, no one can stop it—even if the person himself wants to stop it.”
I have come to think that life is a far more limited thing than those in the midst of its maelstrom realize. The light shines into the act of life for only the briefest moment—perhaps only a matter of seconds. Once it is gone and one has failed to grasp its offered revelation, there is no second chance.
“You see, Mr. Okada, I am a prostitute. I used to be a prostitute of the flesh, but now I am a prostitute of the mind. Things pass through me.”
What we see before us is just one tiny part of the world. We get into the habit of thinking, This is the world, but that’s not true at all. The real world is in a much darker and deeper place than this, and most of it is occupied by jellyfish and things. We just happen to forget all that. Don’t you agree? Two-thirds of the earth’s surface is ocean, and all we can see of it with the naked eye is the surface: the skin. We hardly know anything about what’s underneath the skin.”
In truly deep darkness, all kinds of strange things were possible.
Anything could happen. The possibility is there.
This person, this self, this me, finally, was made somewhere else. Everything had come from somewhere else, and it would all go somewhere else. I was nothing but a pathway for the person known as me.
“Bird as Prophet.”
To know one’s own state is not a simple matter. One cannot look directly at one’s own face with one’s own eyes, for example. One has no choice but to look at one’s reflection in the mirror.
Spending plenty of time on something can be the most sophisticated form of revenge.”
Money had no name, of course. And if it did have a name, it would no longer be money. What gave money its true meaning was its dark-night namelessness, its breathtaking interchangeability.
The Miyawakis’ eldest daughter, a college student at the time, is still missing.
You have now gained access to the program “The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.”
fact may not be truth, and truth may not be factual.
Boris the Manskinner.
“I’m going to take you out of here,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m going to take you home, to the world where you belong, where cats with bent tails live, and there are little backyards, and alarm clocks ring in the morning.” “And how are you going to do that?” the woman asked. “How are you going to take me out of here, Mr. Okada?” “The way they do in the fairy tales,” I said. “By breaking the spell.”
“Goodbye, May Kasahara,” I said. Goodbye, May Kasahara: may there always be something watching over you.
Read with Laura. OK, not amazing (to me). Laura liked it. Interesting use of Andrei Sakharov as a fictional character.
Quotes:
One thing I have learned about organists is that they have absolutely no sense of humor.
Once out of sight, I trudged upward, recalling that ancient stairs in castles and churches wind in a clockwise direction as you ascend, so that an attacker, climbing the stairs, is forced to hold his sword in his left hand, while the defender, fighting downward, is able to use his right, and usually superior, hand.
That, of course, had been before my dishonorable discharge from the troop. Still, even after all this time, I couldn’t help thinking of Delorna Higginson, and how long it had taken them to make her stop screaming and foaming at the mouth.
I was the eighth dwarf. Sneaky.
WHENEVER I’M A LITTLE blue I think about cyanide, whose color so perfectly reflects my mood.
One aspect of poisons that is often overlooked is the pleasure one takes in gloating over them.
“As was your mother, you have been given the fatal gift of genius. Because of it, your life will not be an easy one—nor must you expect it to be. You must remember always that great gifts come at great cost. Are there any questions?”
“No, sir,” I said, as if I were a sapper being charged with blowing up the enemy lines. “No questions.”
“Please don’t condescend to me, Mr. Sowerby, I’m not a child. Well, actually—strictly speaking, and in the eyes of the law—I suppose I am a child, but still, I resent being treated like one.”
“Funny old thing, isn’t it,” Alf asked, “ ’ow every village has its secrets? Some things just not talked about. Ever noticed that? I ’ave.”
“ ‘The successful organist,’ ” she quoted, “ ‘must have fingers long enough to reach the stops, legs long enough to reach the pedal board, and ears long enough to reach into the lives of every choir member.’ Whanley on the Organ and Its Amenities, chapter thirteen, ‘Management of the Choristers.’
The word “actually,” like its cousin “frankly,” should, by itself, be a tip-off to most people that what is to follow is a blatant lie—but it isn’t.
Why do people always quote Hamlet when they want to seem clever?
“Dangerous killers on the loose!” The words which every amateur sleuth lives in eternal hope of hearing.
I’ll pop in later for tea and questioning.”
In death, split seconds could make the difference between the gallows and a slap on the hand.
There isn't much interesting here except for the quotes below.
Quotes:
One of the advantages we have is that we still have family members who are not only middle class, but we've got some family members who are poor. Malia and Sasha have cousins who know what it's like to struggle and know what it's like to have to scrape by
I enjoy teaching. I taught for 10 years. Not full-time, but part-time at the University of Chicago Law School. I could picture myself being a good teacher.
Quotes:
If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years as I could in a day.
‘She abandoned them under a delusion,’ he answered; ‘picturing in me a hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous devotion.
Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself.
I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?’
I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is even in a love like Mr. Linton’s,
‘Hush, hush! He’s a human being,’
praying like a Methodist:
Yet, who knows how long you’ll be a stranger? You’re too young to rest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one could see Catherine Linton and not love her.
‘It is a poor conclusion, is it not?’ he observed, having brooded awhile on the scene he had just witnessed: ‘an absurd termination to my violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two houses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and when everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a slate off either roof has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me; now would be the precise time to revenge myself on their representatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me. But where is the use? I don’t care for striking: I can’t take the trouble to raise my hand!
I have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle to destroy for nothing.
and, as he had no surname, and we could not tell his age, we were obliged to content ourselves with the single word, ‘Heathcliff.’ That came true: we were. If you enter the kirkyard, you’ll read, on his headstone, only that, and the date of his death.
I’ve done no injustice, and I repent of nothing. I’m too happy; and yet I’m not happy enough. My soul’s bliss kills my body, but does not satisfy itself.’
