5
" This is a wonderful day,” Anthony was muttering to himself. “A wonderful day.” He looked up sharply at Gareth. “You don’t have sisters, do you?”
“None,” Gareth confirmed.
“I am in possession of four,” Anthony said, tossing back at least a third of the contents of his glass. “Four. And now they’re all off my hands. I’m done,” he said, looking as if he might break into a jig at any moment. “I’m free.”
“You’ve daughters, don’t you?” Gareth could not resist reminding him.
“Just one, and she’s only three. I have years before I have to go through this again. If I’m lucky, she’ll convert to Catholicism and become a nun.
Gareth choked on his drink.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Anthony said, looking at the bottle. “Aged twenty-four years.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever ingested anything quite so ancient,” Gareth murmured. "
― Julia Quinn , It's in His Kiss (Bridgertons, #7)
6
" Jack Kerouac died after throwing up blood. The malt liquor. Then that other guy who shot his wife in the head. Burroughs somebody. And I wonder about literary figures. They're all drunk and staggering and haunting people today, I bet, still muttering and ranting in disassociated lines.Or, I'm wondering about a middle ground with wooly blankets and nubbly cardigans and nobody shot in the head. Where yes, you are uniquely mad. But functionally uniquely mad. Endlessly absorbed but in the mildly scattered kind of way instead of in the crap-I-shot-my-wife-in-the-head kind of way. Unable to dedicate to another human being only in occasional fits.Roald Dahl says you're a fool to become a writer, your only compensation being absolute freedom but then I'm not so sure about that. He bought a wagon from a Romanian gypsy and his kids played in it and I think he had more in the way of compensation than absolute freedom. He's got a point, though, even if he reached a point where his own point no longer applied to him. He had no master except his own soul, and that, he was sure, was why he did it. "
10
" He stared down at her for a moment, wanting to heal every
cut on her soft skin. But he couldn’t, not yet. He needed to get her,
and her car, far from this place so neither he nor Kate would be
implicated in any way with the gruesome murder site.
It also meant he would have to drive.
In all his years, he had never driven an automobile. The closest he
had come was watching various assistants through the years as they
chauffeured him. He wasn’t sure he could even remember how to
start the car, but right now he had no choice.
Grudgingly, he got into the driver’s seat, and finding the lever
underneath, he pushed it back so he sat comfortably behind the
wheel. After trying three different keys, he found one that slipped into
the ignition.
From what he had seen over the past hundred years, driving was
not a complex operation, and he was an immortal with reflexes far
more keen than a human man.
How difficult could it be?
He turned the key and nearly jerked the wheel off the steering
column when the car surprised him by lurching forward. The car went
silent. The engine wasn’t running. What was he doing wrong?
He stared at the gearshift, wondering if he should move it. His
frustration reared up, but his agitation would not make the car drive
itself. He had to keep a cool head.
Not knowing what else to try, he pushed one of the pedals at his
feet to the floor and turned the key again. This time the car didn’t
move, and it roared to life. Grasping the gearshift, he jammed it into
the first position and glanced over at Kate.
Why couldn’t she have owned a car with an automatic
transmission?
Shaking his head, he put some pressure on the gas pedal and
slowly released the clutch. Thankfully the car rolled a few feet, but
without warning it jumped forward. He pressed the clutch back to the
floor before the engine lost power again.
Calisto slammed his hand against the wheel, muttering under his
breath in Spanish. At this rate it would take him all night to drive her
home.
The faded yellow convertible pitched forward again, threatening
to stall as he continued out of the parking lot, thankful it was late. The
streets were fairly empty. At least he wouldn’t get into an accident
with another car. Her car staggered ahead, lurching each time he
tried to release the clutch, bouncing and jostling them both until Kate
finally stirred and woke up.
§
“Are we out of gas or something?”
Calisto watched her with a tight smile. “Not exactly.”
Kate winced in pain when she laughed. “You can’t drive a stickshift,
can you?”
“Does it show?” Calisto pulled over, finally allowing the engine to
stall.
She nodded her head slowly to avoid more pain. “Just a little.
What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember being mugged. And I remember seeing you, but
everything after that is blank.” She watched his eyes as Calisto
reached over to brush her hair back from her face, and his touch sent
shivers through her body. This wasn’t how she had hoped she would
run into him, but she learned a long time ago fate didn’t always work
out the way you expected. "
― Lisa Kessler , Night Walker (Night, #1)
12
" ...on a number of occasions this book has made reference to magic, and each time you've shaken your head, muttering such criticisms as " What does he mean by 'magic' anyhow? It's embarrassing to find a grown man talking about magic in such a manner. How can anybody take him seriously?" Or, as slightly more gracious readers have objected, " Doesn't the author realize that one can't write about magic? One can create it but not discuss it. It's much too gossamer for that. Magic can be neither described nor defined. Using words to describe magic is like using a screwdriver to slice roast beef." To which the author now replies, Sorry, freeloaders, you're clever but you're not quite correct. Magic isn't the fuzzy, fragile, abstract and ephemeral quality you think it is. In fact, magic is distinguished from mysticism by its very concreteness and practicality. Whereas mysticism is manifest only in spiritual essence, in the transcendental state, magic demands a steady naturalistic base. Mysticism reveals the ethereal in the tangible. Magic makes something permanent out of the transitory, coaxes drama from the colloquial. "
13
" West couldn't simply leave the man like this, he didn't have it in him." Goodman Heath," he said as he approached, and the peasant looked up at him, surprised. He fumbled for his hat and made to rise, muttering apologies." No, please, don't get up." West sat down on the bench. He stared at his feet, unable to look the man in the eye. There was an awkward silence. " I have a friend who sits on the Commission for Land and Agriculture. There might be something he can do for you…" He trailed off, embarrassed, squinting up the corridor.The farmer gave a sad smile. " I'd be right grateful for anything you could do." " Yes, yes, of course, I'll do what I can." It would do no good whatsoever, and they both knew it. West grimaced and bit his lip. " You'd better take this," and he pressed his purse into the peasant's limp, calloused fingers. Heath looked at him, mouth slightly open. West gave a quick, awkward smile then got to his feet. He was very keen to be off." Sir!" called Goodman Heath after him, but West was already hurrying down the corridor, and he didn't look back. "
16
" To think I actually talked to the boy who nearly got you killed," Ivy mutters, shuddering with disgust. " I'm so sorry I did." " It's okay. You didn't know," I reassure her as we take a seat on some pool chairs." But you told me before what his appearance was. I should have recognized him!" " It's fine, Ivy. Even if you did your best to avoid him, he would've found way to hit on you eventually." Ivy wrinkles her nose at the unfamiliar language. " 'Hit on'? What does that mean?" " Flirting. Or, for Dunstan, more like a procedure. He's been hitting on any pretty girl he sees ever since he and Melanie broke up. I don't know if he's doing this to make her jealous or what, but it's really annoying." I look back up to see Ivy go rigid. For some reason she looks classically surprised; her hand is over her mouth, and the rosy blush is back with a vengeance," Ivy? You okay?" Ivy removes her hand, muttering something so quietly I can't hear it." Sorry?" " You called me pretty." The moment those words are said, Ivy stares down at her feet as her face gets brighter." Well, yeah," I murmur, my face hot. " You really are beautiful tonight, Ivy. "
17
" Then Jip went up to the front of the ship and smelt the wind; and he started muttering to himself," Tar; Spanish onions; kerosene oil; wet raincoats; crushed laurel-leaves; rubber burning; lace-curtains being washed--No, my mistake, lace-curtains hanging out to dry; and foxes--hundreds of 'em--cubs; and--" " Can you really smell all those different things in this one wind?" asked the Doctor." Why, of course!" said Jip. " And those are only a few of the easy smells--the strong ones. Any mongrel could smell those with a cold in the head. Wait now, and I'll tell you some of the harder scents that are coming on this wind--a few of the dainty ones." Then the dog shut his eyes tight, poked his nose straight up in the air and sniffed hard with his mouth half-open.For a long time he said nothing. He kept as still as a stone. He hardly seemed to be breathing at all. When at last he began to speak, it sounded almost as though he were singing, sadly, in a dream." Bricks," he whispered, very low--" old yellow bricks, crumbling with age in a garden-wall; the sweet breath of young cows standing in a mountain-stream; the lead roof of a dove-cote--or perhaps agranary--with the mid-day sun on it; black kid gloves lying in a bureau-drawer of walnut-wood; a dusty road with a horses' drinking-trough beneath the sycamores; little mushrooms burstingthrough the rotting leaves; and--and--and--" " Any parsnips?" asked Gub-Gub." No," said Jip. " You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever. "
18
" I felt bashful, like I had when I'd first told him of An Imperial Affliction. " Um, okay. Okay. 'Let us go, trough certain half-deserted streets,/ The muttering retreats/ Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels/ and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:/ Streets that follow like a tedious argument/ Of insidious intent/ To lead you to an overwhelming question../Oh, do not ask, " What is it?" / Let us go and make our visit" " I'm in love with you," he said quietly. " Augustus," I said. " I am, " he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. " I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you." " Augustus," I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this wierdly painful joy, but I couldn't say it back. I couldn't say it back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window. "
20
" At the sight of the flag he tasted tears in his throat. In the Stars and Stripes all the passions of his life coalesced to produce the ache with which he loved the United States of America - with which he loved the dirty, plain, honest faces of GIs in the photographs of World War Two, with which he loved the sheets of rain rippling across the green playing field toward the end of the school year, with which he cherished the sense-memories of the summers in his childhood, the many Kansas summers, running the bases, falling harmlessly onto the grass, his head beating with heat, the stunned streets of breezeless afternoons, the thick, palpable shade of colossal elms, the muttering of radios beyond the windowsills, the whirring of redwing blackbirds, the sadness of the grown-ups at their incomprehensible pursuits, the voices carrying over the yards in the dusks that fell later and later, the trains moving through town into the sky. His love for his country, his homeland, was a love for the United States of America in the summertime. "