I was listening to NPR last night while I dropped my brother back off at school. I was told that listening to NPR was just another one of the multiple reasons why I was "so weird" - or maybe it was "so lame..." Criticisms from my brothers all lump in the whatever pile after awhile.
The perils of being the only girl.
Regardless, there was a
wonderful segment about the
Ten Best Sentences in fiction and nonfiction works. I sometimes forget the beauty of literature beyond the plot development. Syntax, diction, vocabulary, and imagery are an art form on their own, but I rarely acknowledge them outside of poetry readings. It's easier, for me, to focus on the form of a dozen stanzas - rather than analyzing the same elements in a novel, especially when I'm swimming in sentences! I instead, progress with the plot, the story, the theme, the characters and focus more on the actions rather than the details. There are a couple of times where a particular quote or moment of literature stays with me - even years after the fact - but I don't give the
art of writing as much credit it deserves. Although I can't imagine totally transforming my literary habits, I hope to recognize and appreciate the beauty of the composition a little more often.
Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
— James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
This private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel, and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees—partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings; partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate’s exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure; and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves.
— John Hersey, Hiroshima
It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.
— Toni Morrison, Sula
For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?
— Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
It was the United States of America in the cold late spring of 1967, and the market was steady and the G.N.P. high and a great many articulate people seemed to have a sense of high social purpose and it might have been a spring of brave hopes and national promise, but it was not, and more and more people had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.
— Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem
Anger was washed away in the river along with any obligation.
— Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
There are many pleasant fictions of the law in constant operation, but there is not one so pleasant or practically humorous as that which supposes every man to be of equal value in its impartial eye, and the benefits of all laws to be equally attainable by all men, without the smallest reference to the furniture of their pockets.
— Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby
In many ways he was like America itself, big and strong, full of good intentions, a roll of fat jiggling at his belly, slow of foot but always plodding along, always there when you needed him, a believer in the virtues of simplicity and directness and hard labor.
— Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an adored child.
— Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
And a bonus:
Like the waters of the river, like the motorists on the highway, and like the yellow trains streaking down the Santa Fe tracks, drama, in the shape of exceptional happenings, had never stopped there.
