Men who work at Time have a life expectancy which is not long said the young man from Newsweek
Norman MailerStichwörter: time time-magazine newsweek
Every time I move I squash something said Loathesome.
Norman MailerStichwörter: self-esteem self-deprecation loathesome
rip the prisons
open
put the
convicts
on
television
Stichwörter: america usa prison television prisoners guilty criminal tv jail criminals prisons convicts
Listen
my love
the hour
is late
my side
has an
ache
If
you don't
get a
taxi
my heart
will break
Let every
writer
tell his
own
lies
That's freedom
of the
press.
Stichwörter: truth lies lying news freedom-of-speech freedom-of-the-press the-news
I tell you, say the rich,
the poor are naught
but dirty wind
welling in air-shafts
over the cinders
and droppings of
the past, their
voices thick
with grease
and ordure,
sewer-greed
to corrode the ear
with the horrors
of the past
and the voids
of new stupidity.
One could drown
waiting for the poor
to make
one fine distinction.
Yes, destroy us
say the rich
and you lose
the roots
of God.
Stichwörter: rich wealth poor squalor
The Irish are the only men who know how to cry for the dirty polluted blood of all the world.
Norman MailerThe book was sloppily written in many parts (the words came too quickly and too easily) and there was hardly a noun in any sentence that was not holding hands with the nearest and most commonly available adjective — scalding coffee and tremulous fear are the sorts of thing you will find throughout. Over-certified adjectives are the mark of most best-seller writing.
Norman MailerTolstoy teaches us that compassion is of value and enriches our life only when compassion is severe, which is to say when we can perceive everything that is good and bad about a character but are still able to feel that the sum of us as human beings is probably a little more good than awful. In any case, good or bad, it reminds us that life is like a gladiators’ arena for the soul and so we can feel strengthened by those who endure, and feel awe and pity for those who do not.
Norman MailerEverything was damp and rife and hot as though the jungle were an immense collection of oily rags growing hotter and hotter under the dark stifling vaults of a huge warehouse. Heat licked at everything, and the foliage, responding, grew to prodigious sizes. In the depths, in the heat and the moisture, it was never silent. The birds cawed, the small animals and occasional snakes rustled and squealed, and beneath it all was a hush, almost palpable, in which could be heard the rapt absorbed sounds of vegetation growing.
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