Being British, Charlie had nothing of his own and nothing to do save ride round the family estate with a gun under his arm waiting for his father to die.
From Beryl Bainbridge’s Every Man for Himself
The most distinctive feature of [Iris] Murdoch’s philosophical project is her attempt to reclaim the exploration of moral life as a legitimate topic of philosophical investigation. In contrast to the predominant focus on action and decision, she argues that what we require is a renewed sense of the difficulty and complexity of the moral life and the opacity of persons. We need more concepts in terms of which to picture the substance of our being.”
From Carla Bagnoli’s”The Exploration of Moral Life,” in Iris Murdoch, Philosopher (Justin Broackes, editor)
And, Busby says dryly, “his nudity was inappropriate.”
Nudity? Rooms in many small-town hotels had only hand basins, with communal toilets at the end of the hall. These bathrooms were small and hot, and it was cooler if the door was left open, so often Johnson left it open. Not a few voters therefore saw the candidate for the United states senate sitting on the toilet, and described that sight to relatives and friends.
From Robert Caro’s Means of Ascent
What a Fool Believes: On Sergio De La Pava's A Naked Singularity -
After reluctantly putting down Sergio De La Pava’s A Naked Singularity for the night, about a hundred pages into the novel, I thought, This could be one of my favorite books. Two hundreds pages in I thought, I think this is one of my favorite books. After finishing it last night I thought,…
Reading David Gordon’s The Serialist
{Photo by rocketlass.}
This evening, contrary to my principles and practice, I attended a local cocktail party, at which I consumed two tumblers of what must have been very nearly neat whisky, so if this letter is illegible or incoherent, you must forget and forgive.
Rupert Hart-Davis, letter to George Lyttelton of August 18, 1957
Hans was not a man in whom instinct and intellect diverged. On the contrary, the greater his carnal desire, the more voracious his appetite for debate. This particularly intrigued Sophie. The men who had flirted with her before had either done so by stifling their urges in order to discuss books (a tactic that roused her interest, but ended by exasperating her ), or they had thrust all literary interest aside in order to concentrate solely on their immediate desires (a forcefulness that did not displase her, but of which she grew quickly tired). Rudi had been infinitely patient in his courship, which had proved necessary not in order to break down any resistance, but to convince her. Sophie thought she understood the rather limited methods of male conquest, which was inclined to separate (mind or body) rather than unite, and to divide time (speech—preamble, desire—discourse) rather than synchronise it. Hans, on the other hand, seemed to speak to her and desire her simultaneously. He encircled her with his questions, inflamed her with words. This was what the daily letters they sent one another were like. It was how Sophie knew that the passion with which he spoke about Greece one moment and vehemently asked her opinon the next was no preamble, but the onslaught itself, desire as thought. Hans’s attitude in debate was as earthy as could be. And in his general reflections Sophie could not help but glimpse the suggestion of an intimate proposal.
From Andres Neuman’s Traveler of the Century
Hans contemplated the frothy remains on the rim of his beer mug, the hollow ears of the handles, all the things one looks at when everything has been said.
From Andres Neuman’s Traveler of the Century
“Of course you’re doing the book.” Claire was perched on my desk chair, in a plaid miniskirt, black tights and turleneck, poking at her BlackBerry while I paced and wrung my hands. “Not to sound insensitive, but so what if the victims’ families don’t want it? You’re a writer. You’re supposed ot tell the story, not be influenced by that.”
“But what about this deal with Clay?” I asked. “Going to see these fucked-up groupies and writing little porn stories for him? How creepy is that?”
She shrugged. “It’s like in your book _Born to the Game_, when Mordechai agreed to bust King Pimp out of prison for the greater good of catching the crooked white warden.”
“No, it’s not like that at all. Here’s the difference. I made that up. This is real. And totally fucking twisted. I’ll be scarred for life.”
“But you’re already scarred for life. You were a porn editor. You ghostwrite term papers for high school kids. You dress up like your dead mother and write soft-core S&M vampire books and meanwhile you haven’t even had a real, human girlfriend in how long?”
From David Gordon’s The Serialist
“I would give you my soul in a blackberry pie; and a knife to cut it with.”
― Dorothy Dunnett, The Disorderly Knights
Good god, Dorothy Dunnett. It’s been a year since I finished the last of her books, and I still think about them all the time.
I’ve quoted before the line vintageanchor is quoting here, but what’s lost in our quotations is the context: it’s not actually said, but thought, and by a woman who knows she’ll never be asked to give her soul, and never be given the love she’d be willing to trade it for. It’s as moving and sad and lovely as any moment in all the 10,000 pages of Dunnett’s books.
