Bokelskere.no

He was a boy, just a boy, when I was a very young girl. When I was sixteen, I made the discovery – love. All at once and much, much too completely. It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half in shadow, that's how it struck the world for me. But I was unlucky. Deluded.

But some things are not forgivable. Deliberate cruelty is not forgivable. It is the one unforgivable thing in my opinion and it is the one thing of which I have never, never been guilty.

Physical beauty is passing. A transitory possession. But beauty of the mind and richness of the spirit and tenderness of the heart – and I have all of those things – aren't taken away, but grow! Increase with the years! How strange that I should be called a destitute woman! When I have all of these treasures locked in my heart.

Blanche: I don't want realism.
Mitch: Naw, I guess not.
Blanche: I'll tell you what I want. Magic! Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misrepresent things to them. I don't tell the truth. I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it!

So much
human cruelty is simply
incidental is simply
brainless. Simply no
common sense. You could
take the entirety of the
common sense of humans
and put it in the palm of
your hand and still have
room for your dick.

You read a hundred
military manuals you won't
find the word kill they trick
you into killing.

He had found out already this morning that he had been made by a carpenter named Jesus Christ. Before he had thought it had been a doctor named Sladewall, a fat man with a yellow mustache who gave him shots and thought his name was Herbert, but this must have been a joke.

Desire is no light thing.

When they made love
Geryon liked to touch in slow succession each of the bones of Herakles' back
as it arched away from him into
who knows what dark dream of its own, running both hands all the way down
from the base of the neck
to the end of the spine which he can cause to shiver like a root in the rain.

Under the seams runs the pain.

Then a miracle occurred in the form of a plate of sandwiches.
Geryon took three and buried his mouth in a delicious block of white bread filled with tomatoes and butter and salt.
He thought about how delicious it was, how he liked slippery foods, how slipperiness can be of different kinds.
I am a philosopher of sandwiches, he decided. Things good on the inside.

The past and the future were the same thing to him, one forgotten and the other not remembered; he had no more notion of dying than a cat.

"She would of been a good woman," The Misfit said, "if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

The fact is that anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days.

The freak in modern fiction is usually disturbing to us because he keeps us from forgetting that we share in his state. The only time he should be disturbing is when he is held up as a whole man.

Poorly written novels – no matter how pious and edifying the behavior of the characters – are not good in themselves and are therefore not really edifying.