The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark

"Months of boredom had subdued him to intoxication by an experience which, at another time, might itself have bored him." (60)

(1963. Oxford : ISIS Large Print, 1986)

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

Reviews of this book place it as one of Spark's very best, but personally I found it dull and far less engaging than the other novels of hers I've read. Miss Brodie was not in any way a sympathetic character, and the girls were just your typical impressionable youthful pawns/guinea pigs. I was rather disgusted by the whole book, to be honest. Here is one of the few moments where I did enjoy reading this:

"Towards the end of the Easter holidays, to crown the sex-laden year, Jenny, out walking alone, was accosted by a man joyfully exposing himself beside the Water of Leith. He said, 'Come and look at this.'

'At what?' said Jenny, moving closer, thinking to herself he had picked up a fallen nestling from the ground or had discovered a strange plant. Having perceived the truth, she escaped unharmed and unpursued, though breathless, and was presently surrounded by solicitous, horrified relations and was coaxed to sip tea well sugared against the shock." (82)

(New York: Dell Publishing, 1961)

The Drowned and the Saved by Primo Levi

"There is no proportion between the pity we feel and the extent of the pain by which the pity is aroused: a single Anne Frank excites more emotion than the myriads who suffered as she did but whose image has remained in the shadows. Perhaps it is necessary that it can be so. If we had to and were able to suffer the sufferings of everyone, we could not live. Perhaps the dreadful gift of pity for the many is granted only to saints; to the Monatti, to the members of the Special Squad, and to all of us there remains in the best of cases only the sporadic pity addressed to the single individual, the Mitmensch, the co-man: the human being of flesh and blood standing before us, within the reach of our providentially myopic senses." (56)

(Trans. Raymond Rosenthal. New York: Vintage International, 1989)

To Destroy You is No Loss: The Odyssey of a Cambodian Family by JoAn D. Criddle

"When we first arrived in Khum Speu village, men and boys had joined wholeheartedly in soccer matches after a hard day's work, but soon these games were prohibited. Players were told that if they had energy enough to play, then they had energy enough to work longer hours. Angka claimed that it was wrong to waste 'the water that comes from the skin' when it could be expended instead in productive labor. Sweat was to be spent in useful work, not decadent play." (63)


"Dissatisfied with our makeshift huts, people were anxious to qualify for better housing. Some even volunteered information about themselves to prove they belonged to the favored groups allowed to move. Over three million took part in this migration.

In the past, people had been suspicious of the calls for workers, since most men failed to return. We had concluded that such calls were often a ruse to permanently remove selected individuals. However, this new resettlement call for entire familes was viewed differently; it matched our expectations for a return to normality. Conditions had to be better in newly constructed villages, we'd reasoned. Perhaps families would be reunited with missing fathers and husbands after all. Tossed a crumb of hope, we built a feast of optimism.

Close friends and relatives, who did not want to be separated from each other, had timidly asked to be allowed to resettle with those who had been called to transfer. To our surprise, many had been allowed to leave. Most of us jumped to the conclusion that this new leniency must be a turning point toward a decrease in arbitrary rule.

[...] Told to leave bulky household possessions behind, since the new villages had everything provided, those who qualified had willingly lined up to board the waiting vehicles with only a few personal belongings.

Ox carts, trucks, and buses arrived on the appointed day in each village; the average-sized truck held about eighty people. Each vehicle filled rapidly and pulled out of village squares amid tears and cheering.

Typically, a few miles from the village, the vehicles stopped along a tree-lined road. Greeted by stirring music, blaring from loudspeakers, people eagerly piled out of the trucks and lined up to register. A handful of soldiers escorted the women and children, a few at a time, down the winding forest paths or through the abandoned rubber plantations. Hurrying behind the soldiers, excited villagers wondered aloud about their new village.

Upon arrival in the clearing, they hesitated, then tried to retreat. Before them gaped newly dug trenches, an abandoned reservoir, a well, or an old mine shaft. Horrified, villagers were ordered at gunpoint to line up. Their elbows were tied behind their backs with red cord and they were made to kneel along the open trench. Dumbfounded, most obeyed without complaint or struggle. Soldiers administered a quick blow to the back of the head or neck with a heavy wooden hoe or a machete. Each soldier was able to kill villagers at the rate of twenty to thirty per minute with little noise or wasted bullets. The red parachute cords were retrieved for future use.

After the women and children were dispatched, their husbands and fathers were ushered into the clearings. Seeing their massacred loved ones, their own will to live weakened. Most submitted in mute silence, kneeled, and were clubbed.

[...] During French colonial rule, hundred of exploratory mine shafts had been sunk in the plantations as men searched for gemstones. These old shafts were over one hundred feet deep; the bottom could not be seen from the upper edge. Truckload after truckload of victims was dumped into each shaft. When soldiers finished, the shafts, reservoirs, and wells of Cambodia were full." (144-146)


"When the mass graves were finally discovered, the justification given us by Angka for killing women and children was that anyone associated with a "guilty person" [the educated; anyone literate; skilled workers (plumbers, technicians, etc); old government officials; anyone who had lived and worked and been schooled in the cities, basically] was tainted.

Keang had information that eventually everyone over the age of twelve at the time of the takover was ultimately scheduled to be killed [...]. Then there would be left only pliable youth who did not remember the former way of life and had no training or ability to organize resistance against Angka and its plans for a 'perfect society'." (147)

(2nd Edition. Auke Bay: East/West Bridge, 1998)

A very succinct history of what happened: http://www.dithpran.org/killingfields.htm

Loitering With Intent by Muriel Spark

"I made tea and offered to read [Dottie] a bit of my Warrender Chase [...]

'You know,' Dottie said, 'there's something a bit harsh about you, Fleur. You're not really womanly, are you?'

I was really annoyed by this. To show her I was a woman I tore up the pages of my novel and stuffed them into the wastepaper basket, burst out crying and threw her out, roughly and noisily, so that Mr. Alexander looked over the banisters and complained.

'Get out,' I yelled at Dottie. 'You and your husband between you have ruined my literary work.'

After that I went to bed. Flooded with peace, I fell asleep."

Blood on the Risers: An Airborne Soldier's Thirty-five Months in Vietnam by John Leppelman

I could never ever have hacked it there. Reading this was an exercise in desensitization. Harrowing, riveting, and horrible, as in this relatively mild little snippet from the aftermath of Dak To:

"In the early dawn, as first light started to seep through the canopy, the brush started moving directly in front of my position. Several of us took aim on the foliage as a man staggered out, yelling at us in English not to shoot him. It was a survivor from the disaster below. As he made his way through our line, we saw that a large chunk of his skull was missing, and we could actually see his brain. He told us that after the NVA had overrun Alpha's position, they started executing all the survivors by shooting them in the head. Many men had begged for mercy but were executed. He had lain in a pile of American bodies while a gook had placed a rifle barrel against his head and pulled the trigger. By some miracle the bullet had glanced off his head, taking a big chunk of skull, hair, and flesh. He had been stunned but recovered and, once it was dark, escaped back up the mountains."

When Elephants Weep: The Emotional Lives of Animals by Jeffrey Masson & Susan McCarthy

"One factor in the recognition of predators may be an innate response to staring eyes. Birds have been found to be more likely to mob a stuffed owl if it has eyes. Young chicks who have never seen a predator avoid objects with eyes or eye-spots on them, particularly if the eyes are large. Wild birds at a feeder table are much more apt to flee when a design is highlighed on the table if the design resembles eyes, and the more realistic the eyes, the greater their panic."
______________________

"When Tex, a female whooping crane hand-reared by humans, was ready to mate, she rejected male cranes. Instead she was attracted to 'Caucasian men of average height with dark hair'. Since whooping cranes are so close to extinction, it was considered vital to bring Tex into breeding condition so that she could be artificially inseminated. To do this, International Crane Foundation director George Archibald, a dark-haired Caucasian man, spent many weeks courting Tex. 'My duties involved endless hours of "just being there", several minutes of dancing early in the morning and again in the evening, long walks in quest of earthworms, nest building, and defending our territory against humans...' The effort was successful and eventually resulted in a crane chick."
________________

"At an oceanarium, several dolphins were trained in the skills of water polo. First they learned to put a ball through a goal, each team having a different goal. Then the trainers tried to teach them to compete, by keeping the other team from scoring. After three training sessions the dolphins caught on, all too well. Uninterested in strictures against foul play, the dolphins zestfully attacked one another in such an unsporting fashion that the training was discontinued and they were never again given competitive games."

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

"Francie went over to stand at the great window from which she could see the East River twenty stories below. It was the last time she'd see the river from that window. The last time of anything has the poignancy of death itself. This that I see now, she thought, to see no more this way. Oh, the last time how clearly you see everything; as though a magnifying light had been turned on it. And you grieve because you hadn't held it tighter when you had it every day." (476)

(1943. New York: HarperCollins, 2001)

Letter to a Christian Nation by Sam Harris

Loved the whole thing but this part especially struck me:

"Examples of God's failure to protect humanity are everywhere to be seen. The city of New Orleans, for instance, was recently destroyed by a hurricane. More than a thousand people died; tens of thousands lost all their earthly possessions; and nearly a milllion were displaced. It is safe to say that almost every person living in New Orleans at the moment Hurrican Katrina struck shared your belief in an omnipotent, omniscient, and compassionate God. But what was God doing while Katrina laid waste to their city? Surely he heard the prayers of those elderly men and women who fled the rising waters for the safety of their attics, only to be slowly drowned there. These were people of faith. These were good men and women who had prayed throughout their lives. Do you have the courage to admit the obvious? These poor people died talking to an imaginary friend.

Of course there had been ample warning that a storm of "biblical proportions" would strike New Orleans, and the human response to the ensuing disasters was tragicaly inept. But it was inept only by the light of science. Religion offered no basis for a response at all. Advance warning of Katrina's path was wrested from mute Nature by meteorological calculations and satellite imagery. God told no one of his plans. Had the residents of New Orleans been content to rely on the beneficence of God, they wouldnt have known that a killer hurricane was bearing down upon them until they felt the first gusts of wind on their faces. And yet, as will come as no surprise to you, a poll conducted by The Washington Post found that 80 percent of Katrina's survivors claim that the event has only strengthened their faith.

As Hurricane Katrina was devouring New Orleans, nearly a thousand Shiite pilgrims were trampled to death on a bridge in Iraq. These pilgrims believed mightily in the God of the Koran. Indeed, their lives were organized around the indisputable fact of his existence: their women walked veiled before Him; their men regularly murdered one another over rival interpretations of his word. It would be remarkable if a single survivor of this tragedy lost his faith. More likely, the survivors imagine that they were spared through God's grace.

It is time we recognized the boundless narcissism and self-deceit of the saved. It is time we acknowledge how disgraceful it is for the survivors of a catastrophe to believe themselves spared by a loving god, while this same God drowned infants in their cribs. Once you stop swaddling the reality of the world's suffering in religion's fantasies, you will feel in your bones just how precious life is -- and, indeed, how unfortunate it is that millions of human beings suffer the most harrowing abridgements of their happiness for no good reason at all." (emphasis is mine) (p.55-57)

The Fox in the Attic by Richard Hughes

Something hilarious:
"Ostensibly Flemton banquet was an occasion for men only. Only men were invited, sat down at table, delivered speeches and sang songs. But the women cooked and waited, teased and scolded the banqueters, heckled the speeches and encored the songs if they felt like it; and the women certainly enjoyed it all quite as much as the men.

To tell the truth, the men were inclined to be a bit portentous and solemn. Indeed the only really happy and carefree male in the whole Assembly Room seemed to be the fabulous Dr. Brinley the Coroner -- who was eighty-five, and already very drunk, and knew that everybody loved him.

They had tried to steer Dr. Brinley away from sitting next to the bishop, who was new to the mitre and fifty and cold teetotal: "That seat's Mr. Augustine's, Doctor-bach: come you along this way..." But the old man looked round in astonishment: "What! Is the boy actually coming, then?"

It was no good: he read the answer in their faces and sat down without more ado.

Presently the doctor nudged the bishop with his elbow, at the same time pointing dramatically across the table at a certain Alderman Teller. Alderman Teller was trying in vain to settle his huge chins into his unaccustomed high collar.

"Do you keep fowls, my lad?" the doctor asked: "My Lord I should say: forgive an old man, laddie, tongue's taken to slipping."

"Yes, yes," said the bishop: "that is... no: not now, but as a boy..."

Leaving his arm at the point as if he had forgotten it Dr. Brinley turned even more confidentially towards the bishop, breathing at him a blast of whiskey and old age: "Then you're familiar with the spectacle of a very big broody hen trying to get down to work on a clutch of eggs in a bucket that's too narrow for her?" At this the bishop turned on him a face like a politely enquiring hatchet; but the doctor seemed to think he had made his point quite clearly enough.

Opposite, Alderman Teller -- hearing, but also not catching the allusion -- pushed an obstinate fold of jowl into his collar with his finger, then opened his little pink mouth and rolled his eyes solemnly. "Perfect!" shouted Dr. Brinley with a whoop of laughter. "Your health, Alderman Teller dear lad!"

As they clinked glasses the alderman's face broke into a delighted smile as sweet as a child's: "Rhode Islands, Doctor! That's what you ought to have, same as me. But you're right, they do tend to lay away."

However the doctor was no longer listening. He had turned in his seat and was now pointing along the table at the High Steward himself. The High Steward, bashful in his seat of honour, was giving nervous little tugs at the gold chain of office hung round his neck. "Penalty Five Pounds for Improper Use, Tom!" the doctor cried suddenly. "And I doubt the banquet will stop for you, at that!"

This time the bishop's lip did twitch.

"Shut up, Doc," muttered the High Steward, amiably but just a little nettled: "You're bottled." Then he turned round to look at the old man with a wonder not quite free of envy: "Why -- and we haven't even drunk 'The King' yet!"

That was true. The bishop began counting the twenty or more toasts in the toast-list in front of him -- a toast and a song alternately: with such a start, could Dr. Brinley possibly last the course? 'The King'... 'The Immortal Memory of the Founder'... 'The Fallen in the Great War'... Dr. Brinley was down to sing 'Clementine' immediately after 'The Fallen', he saw. And then he noticed further down it was Dr. Brinley who was to propose 'The Lord Bishop'! In his missionary days in Africa he had attended some curious gatherings, but this bid fair... indeed he began to wonder if it had been prudent to accept.

"Glad you came," said the old man suddenly -- apropos of nothing, as if reading his thoughts -- and patted him on the shoulder: "Good lad!... Good Lord" he corrected himself under his breath, and chuckled.

Meanwhile, the banquet continued. The banqueters ate fast and in almost total silence: only Dr. Brinley's sallies kept ringing out in quick succession. "A kind of licensed jester, I suppose," the bishop ruminated. "But really! At his age!"

"My Lord," said Dr. Brinley, breathing whiskey and bad teeth in his face again: "I wonder would you help an old man in his difficulties, eh?" He pushed his face even closer, and waited for an answer, open-mouthed.

"If I can..."

"Then tell me something very naughty you did as a little nipper."

The bishop's indrawn breath was almost a gasp -- for memory had taken him quite unawares. 'A blow below the apron,' the doctor thought, reading his gasp, and chuckled: "No, laddie -- not that one," he said aloud: "Nothing really shaming... just something for a good laugh when I come to speak to your health."

"You must give me time to think," the bishop said evenly. That sudden ancient recollection of real wrongdoing unexpiated had shaken him, and he was too sincere a man to force a smile about it. --But was 'a good laugh' quite...?

"They'll like you all the better for it," the old man cajoled, as if yet again reading his thoughts." (31-33)


Something cute:
"Polly greeted Mr. Wantage warmly but politely (he was Mr. Wantage to her, by her mother's fiat). Once inside the door she sat herself expectantly on the end of a certain long Bokhara rug: for as usual on first getting home she wanted to set out at once for the North Pole drawn on her sledge by a yelping team of Mr. Wantage across the frozen wastes of ballroom parquet." (53)

Something to remember:
"There had never been so much death in any earlier war: nothing comparable.

In the one battle of Passchendaele alone the British alone lost nearly half a million men. But mostly it was war hardly separable into battles -- a killing going on all the time: without apparent military object, although in fact a deliberate military policy called 'attrition'. For while so many men on both sides were still alive between the Alps and the Narrow Seas the generals on both sides had no room for manoeuvre; and in manoeuvre alone (they both thought) lay any hope of a decision.

But so prolific had civilised western man become it proved no easy task, this killing enough in the enemy ranks and your own to make room to move. Even after some four years, when some fourteen million men all told had been killed or maimed or broken in nerve, it had scarcely been achieved. Always there seemed to be new boys in every country growing to manhood to fill the gaps; whereon the gaps had to be made all over again.

Boys of Augustine's age had been children when the war began and as children do they accepted the world into which they had been born, knowing no other: it was normal because it was normal. After a while they could hardly remember back before it began; and it hardly entered their comprehension that one day the war could end.

Merely they knew they were unlikely to live much beyond the age of nineteen; and they accepted this as the natural order of things, just as mankind in general accepts the unlikelihood of living much beyond eighty or so. It was one of those natural differences between boys and girls: girls such as Mary would live out their lives, but not their brothers. So, generation after generation of boys grew big, won their colours, and a few terms later were... mere names, read aloud in chapel once. As list succeeded list the time of other littler boys for the slaughterhouse was drawing nearer; but they scarcely gave it a thought as they in turn grew into big boys, won their football colours.

After all, it is only grown men ever who think of school as a microcosm, a preparation for adult life: to most boys at any time school is life, is itself the cosmos: a rope in the air you will climb, higher and higher, and -- then, quite vanish into somewhere incomprehensible anyhow. Thus in general they seemed quite indifferent. Yet sometimes the death of someone very close -- a brother, or a father perhaps -- would bring home to them momentarily that being killed is radically different from that mere normal disappearing into the grown-up shadow-world: is being no more even a shadow on the earth." (109-110)

(Harper and Brothers, 1961)

The Assault by Harry Mulisch

After the horrible incident that altered his life forever, only 55 pages in (gives me chills):
"All the rest is a postscript -- the cloud of ash that rises from the volcano, circles around the earth, and continues to rain down on all its continents for years."

The beginning of the last episode:
"And then...and then...and then...Time passes. 'That, at least, is behind us,' we say, 'but what still lies ahead?' The way we word it, it's as if our backs were turned to the past as we look toward the future; and that is, in fact, how we actually think of it: the future in front, the past behind. To dynamic personalities, the present is a ship that drives its bow throught the rough seas of the future. To more passive ones, it is rather like a raft drifting along with the tide. There is, of course, something wrong with both these images, for if time is movement, then it must be moving through another kind of time, and the secondary time through yet another; and thus time is endlessly multiplied. This is the kind of concept that does not please philosphers, but then, inventions of the heart have little to do with those of the intellect.

Besides, whoever keeps the future in front of him and the past at his back is doing something else that is hard to imagine. For the image implies that events somehow already exist in the future, reach the present at a determined moment, and finally come to rest in the past. But nothing exists in the future; it is empty; one might die at any minute. Therefore such a person has his face turned toward the void, whereas it is the past behind him that is visible, stored in the memory." (p. 151, Random House, 1985)

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

"I twisted open the lid of the jar and took the firefly out, setting it on the two-inch lip of the water tank. It seemed not to grasp its new surroundings. It hobbled around the head of a steel bolt, catching its legs on curling scabs of paint." (46)

"I have a lot more patience for others that I have for myself, and I'm much better at bringing out the best in others than in myself. That's just the kind of person I am. I'm the scratchy stuff on the side of the matchbox." (150)

"April ended and May came along, but May was even worse than April. In the deepening spring of May, I had no choice but to recognize the trembling of my heart. It usually happened as the sun was going down. In the pale evening gloom, when the soft fragrance of magnolias hung in the air, my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and wait for it to pass. And it would pass -- but slowly, taking its own time, and a leaving a dull ache behind.

At those times I would write to Naoko. In my letters to her, I would describe only things that were touching or pleasant or beautiful: the fragrance of grasses, the caress of a spring breeze, the light of the moon, a movie I'd seen, a song I liked, a book that had moved me. I myself would be comforted by letters like this when I would reread what I had written. And I would feel like the world I lived in was a wonderful one." (255)

The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason by Sam Harris

"We live in an age in which most people believe that mere words-- "Jesus," "Allah," "Ram" -- can mean the difference between eternal torment and bliss everlasting. Considering the stakes here, it is not surprising that many of us occasionally find it necessary to murder other human beings for using the wrong magic words, or the right ones for the wrong reasons. How can any person presume to know that this is the way the universe works? Because it says so in our holy books. How do we know that our holy books are free from error? Because the books themselves say so. Epistemological black holes of this sort are fast draining the light from our world.

There is, of course, much that is wise and consoling and beautiful in our religious books. But words of wisdom and consolation and beauty abound in the pages of Shakespeare, Virgil, and Homer as well, and no one ever murdered strangers by the thousands because of the inspiration he found there. The belief that certain books were written by God (who, for reasons difficult to fathom, made Shakespeare a far better writer than himself) leaves us powerless to address the most potent source of human conflict, past and present. How is it that the absurdity of this idea does not bring us, hourly, to our knees? It is safe to say that few of us would have thought so many people could believe such a thing, if they did not actually believe it. Imagine a world in which generations of human beings come to believe that certain films were made by God or that specific software was coded by him. Imagine a future in which millions of our descendants murder each other over rival interpretations of Star Wars or Windows 98. Could anything -- anything -- be more ridiculous? And yet, this would be no more ridiculous than the world we are living in." (35-36)

"What one believes happens after death dictates much of what one believes about life, and this is why faith-based religion, in presuming to fill in the blanks in our knowledge of the hereafter, does such heavy lifting for those who fall under its power. A single proposition -- you will not die -- once believed, determines a response to life that would be otherwise unthinkable.

Imagine how you would feel if your only child suddenly died of pneumonia. Your reaction to this tragedy will be largely determined by what you think happens to human beings after they die. It would undoubtedly be comforting to believe something like: "He was God's little angel, and God took him back early because he wanted him close to Jesus. He'll be waiting for us when we get to heaven." If your beliefs are those of a Christian Scientist, obliging you to forgo all medical interventions, you may even have collaborated with God by refusing to give your child antibiotics.

Or consider how you would feel if you learned that a nuclear war had erupted between Israel and its neighbors over the ownership of the Temple Mount. If you were a millenium-minded Christian, you would undoubtedly view this as a sign of Christ's imminent return to earth. This would be nothing if not good news, no matter what the death toll. There's no denying that a person's conception of the afterlife has direct consequences for his view of the world.

Of course, religious moderation consists in not being too sure about what happens after death. This is a reasonable attitude, given the paucity of evidence on the subject. But religious moderation still represents a failure to criticize the unreasonable (and dangerous) certainty of others. As a consequence of our silence on these matters, we live in a country in which a person cannot get elected president if he openly doubts the existence of heaven and hell. This is truly remarkable, given that there is no other body of "knowledge" that we require our political leaders to master. Even a hairstylist must pass a licensing exam before plying his trade in the United States, and yet those given the power to make war and national policy -- those whose decisions will inevitably affect human life for generations -- are not expected to know anything in particular before setting to work. They do not have to be political scientists, economists, or even lawyers; they need not have studied international relations, military history, resource management, civil engineering, or any other field of knowledge that might be brought to bear in the governance of a modern superpower; they need only be expert fund-raisers, comport themselves well on television, and be indulgent of certain myths. In our next presidential election, an actor who reads his Bible would almost certainly defeat a rocket scientist who does not. Could there be any clearer indication that we are allowing unreason and otherworldliness to govern our affairs?" (38-39)

"The contents of consciousness -- sights, sounds, sensations, thoughts, moods, etc. -- whatever they are at the level of the brain, are merely expressions of consciousness at the level of our experience. Unrecognized as such, many of these appearances seem to impinge upon consciousness from without, and the sense of self emerges, and grows entrenched, as the feeling that that which knows is circumscribed, modified, and often oppressed by that which is known. Indeed, it is likely that our parents found us in our cribs long before we found ourselves there, and that we were merely led by their gaze, and their pointing fingers, to coalesce around an implied center of cognition that does not, in fact, exist. Thereafter, every maternal caress, every satisfaction of hunger or thirst, as well as the diverse forms of approval and rebuke that came in reply to the actions of our embodied minds, seemed to confirm a self-sense that we, by example, finally learned to call "I" -- and thus we became the narrow locus around which all things and events, pleasant and unpleasant, continue to swirl." (213)

A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway

"With the fishermen and the life on the river, the beautiful barges with their own life on board, the tugs with their smokestacks that folded back to pass under the bridges, pulling a tow of barges, the great elms on the stone banks of the river, the plane trees and in some places the poplars, I could never be lonely along the river. With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day until a night of warm wind would bring it suddenly in one morning. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat it back so that it would seem that it would never come and that you were losing a season out of your life. This was the only truly sad time in Paris because it was unnatural. You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was though a young person had died for no reason."

And something more hopeful:

"It was all part of the fight against poverty that you never win except by not spending. Especially if you buy pictures instead of clothes. But then we did not think of ourselves as poor. We did not accept it. We thought we were superior people and other people that we looked down on and rightly mistrusted were rich. It had never seemed strange to me to wear sweatshirts for underwear to keep warm. It only seemed odd to the rich. We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and loved each other."

And since I've been wondering about wine lately:

"In Europe then we thought of wine as something as healthy and normal as food and also as a great giver of happiness and well being and delight. Drinking wine was not a snobbism nor a sign of sophistication nor a cult; it was as natural as eating and to me as necessary, and I would not have thought of eathing a meal without drinking either wine or cider or beer."

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

A few gems:

"The night was perfectly still, and the air so dry and pure that it gave little sensation of cold. The effect produced on Frome was rather of a complete absence of atmosphere, as though nothing less tenuous than ether intervened between the white earth under his feet and the metallic dome overhead."

"In a sky of iron the points of the Dipper hung like icicles and Orion flashed his cold fires."

"He kept his eyes fixed on her, marvelling at the way her face changed with each turn of their talk, like a wheat-field under a summer breeze. It was intoxicating to find such magic in his clumsy words, and he longed to try new ways of using it."