John Shooter: You stole my story. Mort: I'm... I'm sorry, do I... I don't believe I know you. John Shooter: I know that, that doesn't matter, I know you Mr. Rainey, that's what matters. You stole my story. [holding out his manuscript to Mort] Mort: You're mistaken. I don't read manuscripts. John Shooter: You read this one already. You stole it. Mort: I can assure you... John Shooter: I know you can. I know that. I don't want to be assured. Mort: If you want to talk to somebody about some grievance you feel you may have, you can call my literary agent. John Shooter: This is between you and me. [sees Chico under him] John Shooter: We don't need no outsiders, Mr. Rainey. Mort: I don't like being accused of plagiarism, if that is in fact what you are accusing me of. Chico inside. [Chico goes back inside] John Shooter: I don't blame you for not liking it but you did it. Mort: You're gonna have to leave. I have nothing more to say. John Shooter: Yeah, I'll go. We'll talk more later. [hands the manuscript to Mort to take it] Mort: I'm not taking that. John Shooter: Won't do you no good to play games with me, Mr. Rainey. This has got to be settled. Mort: So far as I'm concerned it is.
Wordfest party guest: How did you feel about the adaptation? Wordfest party guest: I thought it was more literary than cinematic...
As usual, the note occupied less than a page and included neither salutation nor closing, Uncle Hal's opinion being that since the letter had a direction upon it, the intended recipient was obvious, the seal indicated plainly who had written it, and he did not waste his time in writing to fools.
Lucy: You take everyone's suffering and turn it into gold, LITERARY GOLD!
They never opened the door which leads to the soul.
Elizabeth: [to Ruby] We'll be like this beautiful literary freaks. Being brilliant, and dark. Sexy. [both laugh] Elizabeth: [to herself] Trouble is, I'm deadly serious.
When a friend of Abigail and John Adams was killed at Bunker Hill, Abigail's response was to write a letter to her husband and include these words,
In another corner Nathaniel murmured to Maura,
He has a mind so fine that no idea could violate it.
The book, like the bicycle, is a perfect form.
All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds.
As good almost kill a man as kill a good book: who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book, kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye.
All of our waste which we dumped on her and which she absorbed. And all of our beauty, which was hers first and which she gave to us. All of us--all who knew her--felt so wholesome after we cleaned ourselves on her. We were so beautiful when we stood astride her ugliness. her simplicity decorated us, her guilt sanctified us, her pain made us glow with health, her awkwardness made us think we has a sense of humor. Her inarticulateness made us believe we were eloquent. Her poverty kept us generous. Even her waking dreams we used--to silence our own nightmares. And she let us, and thereby deserved our contempt. We honed our egos on her, padded our characters with her frailty, and yawned in the fantasy of our strength. And fantasy it was, for we were not strong, only aggressive; we were not free, merely licensed; we were not compassionate, we were polite; not good, but well behaved. We courted death in order to call ourselves brave, and hid like thieves from life. We substituted good grammar for intellect; we switched habits to simulate maturity; we rearranged lies and called it truth, seeing in the new pattern of and old idea the Revelation and the World.
This was a lucky recollection -- it saved her from something like regret.
The sky had never seemed so sky; the world had never seemed so world.
No one hath seen beauty in its highest lustre who hath never seen it in distress.
The significant difference between Proust and Faulkner, for Sartre, is that where Proust discovers salvation in time, in the recovery of time past, for Faulkner time is never lost, however much he may want, like a mystic, to forget time. Both writers emphasize the transitoriness of emotion, of the condition of love or misery, or whatever passes because it is transitory in time.
There's a but, isn't there?
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