...I meditated on the passage of time, and how it may be found in both a dry and a wet or gaseous state; how, though lush, it might be dessicated for storage.
M.T. AndersonI miss that time. The cities back then, just after the forests died, were full of wonders, and you'd stumble on them--these princes of the air on common rooftops--the rivers that burst through the city streets so they ran like canals--the rabbits in parking garages--the deer foaling, nestled in Dumpsters like a Nativity.
M.T. AndersonThe tumults of time are oft passed by in records of the private memoirist; for our days consist not of the Senatorial speech and the refracted solar beam cast through heroic cloud, but rather of bread eaten, and ink blotted, and talk of the sermon, and walks along the whiskery avenues in the garden.
M.T. AndersonI protested, 'A man is known by his deeds.'
Oh, that's sure,' said Bono. 'Just like a house is known by its deeds. The deeds say who owns it, who sold it, and who'll be buying a new one when it gets knocked down.
...for reading, once begun, quickly becomes home and circle and court and family, and indeed, without narrative, I felt exiled from my own country. By the transport of books, that which is most foreign becomes one's familiar walks and avenues; while that which is most familiar is removed to delightful strangeness; and unmoving, one travels infinite causeways, immobile and thus unfettered.
M.T. AndersonThe natural world is so adaptable...So adaptable you wonder what's natural.
M.T. AndersonWe must curb ourfury, and allow sadness to diminish, and speak our stories with coolness and deliberation.
We enter a time of calamity. Blood on the tarmac. Fingers in the juicer. Towers of air frozen in the lunar wastes. Models dead on the runways, with their legs facing backward. Children with smiles that can’t be undone. Chicken shall rot in the aisles. See the pillars fall.
M.T. AndersonMots clés feed
I wanted to say something to cheer her up. I had a feeling that cheering her up might be a lot of work. I was thinking of how sometimes, trying to say the right thing to people, it’s like some kind of brain surgery, and you have to tweak exactly the right part of the lobe. Except with talking, it’s more like brain surgery with old, rusted skewers and things, maybe like those things you use to eat lobster, but brown. And you have to get exactly the right place, and you’re touching around in the brain but the patient, she keeps jumping and saying, “Ow.
M.T. AndersonMots clés feed
I don’t know. D’you think? He’s pretty wide in the chest.”
The girl looked at me, and I was frozen. So I said, “Yeah. I work out.”
Violet asked me, “What are you? What’s your cup size?”
I shrugged and played along. “Like, nine and a half?” I guessed. “That’s my shoe size.”
Violet said, “I think he’d like something slinky, kind of silky.”
I said, “As long as you can stop me from rubbing myself up against a wall the whole time.”
“Okay,” said Violet, holding her hands up like she was annoyed. “Okay, the chemise last week was a mistake.
Mots clés feed
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