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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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@kotrynagaranasvili
“Remember her trying to teach me about my credit cards and my damn bank balance?” “Watch your language. Don’t say bank balance.” “Once I was in debt. I was in debt so much that with all the deductions she took out of my allowance, I didn’t even have enough money to pay for taxis.”
Life Without Zoe
Voyaging to the bathroom at half-past four, he saw with a shock that morning was already blue at the window. He had stayed up all night. He remembered that people who stayed up all night went crazy, and transfixed in the hall, he tried agonizingly to listen to himself, to feel whether or not he was going crazy. The things around him seemed preternaturally unreal, and rushing frantically back into his bedroom, he began tearing off his clothes, racing after the vanishing night. Undressed, he threw a final regretful glance at his pile of manuscript--he had the whole next scene in his head. As a compromise with incipient madness he got into bed and wrote for an hour more. Late next morning he was startled awake by one of the ruthless Scandinavian sisters who, in theory, were the Lees' servants. "Eleven o'clock!" she shouted. "Five after!" "Let me alone," Basil mumbled. "What do you come and wake me up for?" "Somebody downstairs." He opened his eyes. "You ate all the cream last night," Hilda continued. "Your mother didn't have any for her coffee." "All the cream!" he cried. "Why, I saw some more." "It was sour." "That's terrible," he exclaimed, sitting up. "Terrible!" For a moment she enjoyed his dismay. Then she said, "Riply Buckner's downstairs," and went out, closing the door.
F.S. Fitzgerald, The Captured Shadow
I thought it was no dream, but a waking vision.
Homer, The Odyssey
Footnotes
Endnotes
Upnotes
This is not just green, but also the living force of the tree made visible.
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead
Flat on her back; hands crossed under her head, she studied the motion of leaves against the sky. It was an earnest occupation, giving her full contentment. She thought, it's a lovely kind of green, there's a difference between the color of plants and the color of objects, this has light in it, this is not just green, but also the living force of the tree made visible, I don't have to look down, I can see the branches, the trunk, the roots just by looking at that color.
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead
I don't know why not call it love, it had all the earmarks.
Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt
-Lino Lago, On Ingres (Fake Abstracts)
She's very clever, especially when she's in a bad humour.
Ivan Turgenev, A Month in the Country (translated by Constance Garnett)
He was well aware of his inability to tolerate solitude. He felt no inclination to be alone and avoided it as far as possible; he didn’t really want to become any better acquainted with himself. He knew that, if he was to show his talents to best advantage, he needed to strike sparks off other people to fan the flames of warmth and exuberance in his heart. On his own he was frosty, no use to himself at all, like a match left lying in its box.
Stefan Zweig, The Burning Secret (translated by Anthea Bell)
BOLSHINTSOV. I must confess to you, Ignaty Ilyitch, that I have had very little to do with ladies, with the female sex, in general, if I may say so; I will confess frankly, Ignaty Ilyitch, that I simply can't imagine what one can talk about to a person of the female sex--and alone with her too . . . and especially a young lady. SHPIGELSKY. You surprise me. I really don't know what one can't talk about to a person of the female sex, especially a young lady, and particularly alone with her.
Ivan Turgenev, A Month in the Country (translated by Constance Garnett)
She got up on to the model stand. I stared at her and I stared at the picture. I had such a funny little feeling in my heart. It was as though someone softly plunged a sharp knife into it, but it was not an unpleasant sensation at all, painful but strangely agreeable; and then suddenly I felt quite weak at the knees. But now I do not know if I remember Rosie in the flesh or in the picture. For when I think of her it is not in the shirt and boater that I first saw her in, nor in any of the other dresses I saw her in then or later, but in the white silk that Hillier painted, with a black velvet bow in her hair, and in the pose he had made her take.
W. Somerset Maugham, Cakes and Ale
I’ve been looking for a medium that could contain a miniature form. Snippets of writing that fall between a post and a one-liner. Things that normally stay on the margins of a page: notes, quotes, sketches, unfinished thoughts, mini journal entries, fictional extracts, mood boards, and artwork. This should do it.