I stepped inside. It was almost pitch dark, smelling of old underwear and the sleep of a sick body. A feeble light came from a crack in the window covered by a slice of sacking. Before I could stop him, Sammy had bolted the door...Vapors spilled from our mouths in the cold air. "Let her in, Sammy," I said. "What the hell."
John FanteRelated topics
air almost body came cold crack dark door hell inside light pitch sacking say sick sleep slice smelling step stop underwear window sammyRelated quotes
Libraries are reservoirs of strength, grace, and wit, reminders of order, calm, and continuity, lakes of mental energy, neither warm nor cold, light nor dark. The pleasure they give is steady, unorgastic, reliable, deep, and long-lasting. In any library in the world, I am at home, unselfconscious, still, and absorbed.
Germaine Greer
These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light - the soul's certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
David Foster Wallace
With their tinted windows up, the cars of the rich go like dark eggs down the roads of Delhi. Every now and then an egg will crack open-a woman's hand, dazzling with gold bangles, stretches out an open window, flings an empty mineral water bottle onto the road-and then the window goes up, and the egg is resealed.
Aravind Adiga
Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears Ah, she doth depart. Soon as she was gone from me A traveler came by Silently, invisibly He took her with a sigh.
William Blake
In this century the writer has carried on a conversation with madness. We might almost say of the twentieth-century writer that he aspires to madness. Some have made it, of course, and they hold special places in our regard. To a writer, madness is a final distillation of self, a final editing down. It's the drowning out of false voices.
Don DeLillo
