Book Passages

[Thumpalumpacus]

Hemingway's description of El Sordo's last stand in For Whom the Bell Tolls is stunning. From the same book, he describes a fascist mass-murder conducted by forcing socialists off the cliffs of Ronda, which bisect the town, in southeastern Spain. I've stood on those cliffs and looked into the canyon ... when I came across that passage a year later, the horror was magnified by having seen that drop, a couple hundred feet.

Here's a pic of it, from the net:

[BrianSoddingBoru4]

‘It’s a hell of a note when you can’t even kill a dragon and feel lighthearted afterwards.’ - Glory Road, by Robert Heinlein

Boru

[Fake Messiah]

I hate when I pick up a novel or a short story collection and there's the introduction that praises the novel as great, a masterpiece, the cornerstone of the 20th century, so funny, exciting, etc., and then I can't read it because it seems boring. I keep thinking, "When is this going to turn into a cornerstone of the 20th century? When will this turn my world around? When will this start to get funny?"

That's why Salinger forbade introductions and similar things to his novels.

[AFTT47]

A line I can't forget is from a story that was never published:

"She left his dead body staring at the basketball game on TV which continued, oblivious to his death."

It was from a collection of laughably bad prose from material amateurs had submitted for publication. I found the part about the basketball game being oblivious to his death hilarious and I never forgot it.

[Paraselene]

A line I can't forget is from a story that was never published:

"She left his dead body staring at the basketball game on TV which continued, oblivious to his death."

It was from a collection of laughably bad prose from material amateurs had submitted for publication. I found the part about the basketball game being oblivious to his death hilarious and I never forgot it.

It's the kind of thing that'd catch my attention.

[The Valkyrie]

Practically anything from Terry Pratchett.

[Ivan Denisovich]

It's from Silmarillion:

“Then Fingolfin beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he mounted upon Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him. He passed over Dor-nu-Fauglith like a wind amid the dust, and all that beheld his onset fled in amaze, thinking Oromë himself was come; for a great madness of rage was upon him, so that his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar. Thus he came alone to Angband’s gates, and he sounded his horn, and smote once more upon the brazen doors, and challenged Morgoth to come forth to single combat. And Morgoth came. That was the last time in those wars that he passed the doors of his stronghold, and it is said that he took not the challenge willingly; for though his might was greatest of all things in this world, alone of the Valar he knew fear. But he could not now deny the challenge before the face of his captains; for the rocks rang with the shrill music of Fingolfin’s horn, and his voice came keen and clear down into the depths of Angband; and Fingolfin named Morgoth craven, and lord of slaves. Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the king like a tower, iron-crowned and his vast shield, sable unblazoned, cast a shadow over him like a storm cloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it like a star;for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, and it glittered like ice, cold and gray and deadly.

Then Morgoth hurled aloft Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, and swung it down like a bolt of thunder. But Fingolfin sprang aside, and Grond rent a mighty pit in the earth, whence smoke and fire darted. Many times Morgoth essayed to smite him, and each time Fingolfin leaped away, as a 'lightning shoots from under a dark cloud; and he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish, whereat the hosts of Angband fell upon their faces in dismay, and the cries echoed in the Northlands.

But at the last the King grew weary, and Morgoth bore down his shield upon him. Thrice he was crushed to his knees, and thrice arose again and bore up his broken shield and stricken helm. But the earth was all rent and pitted about him, and he stumbled and fell backward before the feet of Morgoth; and Morgoth set his left foot upon his neck, and the weight of it was like a fallen hill. Yet with his last and desperate stroke Fingolfin hewed the foot with Ringil, and the blood gashed forth black and smoking and filled the pits of Grond.

Thus died Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor, most proud and valiant of the Elven-kings of old".

[Ravenshire]

We should admire Prometheus, not Zues...Job, not Jehovah. Becoming a god, or godlike being, is selling out to the enemy. From the Greeks to the Norse to the Garden of Eden, gods are capricious assholes with impulse control problems. Joining their ranks would be a step down.

From "Radiant" by James Alan Gardner

[Rev. Rye]

The last couple paragraphs of Frank Norris’ McTeague

Suddenly the men grappled, and in another instant were rolling and struggling upon the hot white ground. McTeague thrust Marcus backward until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little bird cage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and rolled out upon the ground, the flour-bags slipping from it. McTeague tore the revolver from Marcus's grip and struck out with it blindly. Clouds of alkali dust, fine and pungent, enveloped the two fighting men, all but strangling them.

McTeague did not know how he killed his enemy, but all at once Marcus grew still beneath his blows. Then there was a sudden last return of energy. McTeague's right wrist was caught, something licked upon it, then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath.

As McTeague rose to his feet, he felt a pull at his right wrist; something held it fast. Looking down, he saw that Marcus in that last struggle had found strength to handcuff their wrists together. Marcus was dead now; McTeague was locked to the body. All about him, vast interminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley.

McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison.

My Favourite ending passage for a novel.

[Mister Agenda]

"It was much better to imagine men in some smoky room somewhere, made mad and cynical by privilege and power; plotting over the brandy. You had to cling to this sort of image, because if you didn't then you might have to face the fact that bad things happened because ordinary people, the kind who brushed the dog and told their children bedtime stories, were capable of then going out and doing horrible things to other ordinary people. It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's fault. If it was Us, what did that make Me? After all, I'm one of Us. I must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's Them that do the bad things." ~ Jingo, Terry Pratchett