Saturday, May 29, 2010

the great gatsby - perfect?

Selections from the novel in support of my case:

"I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others - poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner - young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life."

"One thing's sure and nothing's surer
The rich get richer and the poor get - children."

"Her voice is full of money."

"I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone's away. There's something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands."

"It excited him, too, that many men had already loved Daisy - it increased her value in his eyes."

"In two weeks it'll be the longest day in the year....Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

"For a moment, the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened--then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk."

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Thursday, May 27, 2010


"My subject in fiction is the action of grace in territory largely held by the devil."

- Flannery O'Connor

Friday, May 21, 2010

john updike, bless him

I have so many posts to upload my friends, but couldn't resist an Updike teaser.

This is the link to a fantastic interview with the man in The Paris Review:

Here's my favorite bit, especially since I have just left New York for an indefinite amount of time:


You seem to shun literary society. Why?


I don’t, do I? Here I am, talking to you. In leaving New York
in 1957, I did leave without regret the literary demimonde of
agents and would-be’s and with-it nonparticipants; this world
seemed unnutritious and interfering. Hemingway described liter-
ary New York as a bottle full of tapeworms trying to feed on each
other. When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but
toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas. I think of the
books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a
countryish teenaged boy finding them, and having them speak to