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30 July 2007

Name that book! Where does this quote come from:
[More:]
"Thus, my duties, compared to what I had been used to, were light and fairly free of strain: I kept the place clean and added my shoulder to a job when extra strength was needed, such as bending a wheel rim, and frequently I spelled Hark as he pumped at the bellows of the forge, but generally speaking (and for the first time in years), the tasks I encountered were those calculated to tax not my muscles but my ingenuity. (For instance, the loft of the shop since its conversion from the status of a barn had still been infested by bats, tolerable enough when the place was the abode of cattle but an insufferable plague of drizzling bat shit to humans laboring daily below. Travis had tried half a dozen futile measures to rid himself of the pests, including fire and smoke, which nearly burned the place down; whereupon at this point I went out into the woods to a certain nest I knew of and plucked a blacksnake out of hibernation, wrenching it from the tail-end of its winter's sleep and installing it in the eaves. When spring came a week later the bats quickly vanished, and the blacksnake continued in friendly, satisfied residence, slithering benevolently around the circumference of the shop as it gobbled up rats and field mice, its presence earning me, I know, quiet admiration in Travis's regard.) So, all things being equal, from the beginning of my stay with Travis, I was in as palmy and benign a state as I could remember in many years. Miss Maria's demands were annoying, but she was a small thorn. Instead of the nigger food I was accustomed to at Moore's, fat pork and corn pone, I got house food like the white people -- a lot of lean bacon and red meat, occasionally even the leavings from a roast of beef, and often white bread made of wheat -- and the lean-to shed adjoining the wheel shop where Hark and I shared housekeeping was roomy enough, with the first bed elevated above the ground that I had slept on since the old days with Samuel Turner; and I constructed, with my owner's blessing, an ingenious wooden vent leading through the wall from the forge, which was always banked with charcoal: the vent could be shut off in the summer, but in the winter its constant warmth made Hark and me (the poor boy Moses slept in the house, in a damp kitchen closet, where he could be available for errands night and day) as snug as two grubs beneath a log. Above all, I had quite a bit of time on my hands. I could fish and trap and do considerable Scriptural reading. I had for going on to several years now considered the necessity of exterminating all the white people in Southampton County and as far beyond as destiny carried me, and there was thus available to me more time than I had ever had before to ponder the Bible and its exhortations, and to think over the complexities of the bloody mission that was set out before me.
"
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 12:13
Harry Potter and the Song of the South
heh, Flo. *shakes head fondly*

"The Confessions of Nat Turner"
posted by taz 30 July | 12:25
We have a winner! Your turn?
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 12:27
kinda easy (but no fair googling!):

"It clattered; and at that signal, through the dusty glass door behind the painted deal counter, Mr Verloc would issue hastily from the parlour at the back. His eyes were naturally heavy; he had an air of' having wallowed, fully dressed, all day on an unmade bed. Another man would have felt such an appearance a distinct disadvantage. In a commercial transaction of the retail order much depends on the seller's engaging and amiable aspect. But Mr Verloc knew his business, and remained undisturbed by any sort of aesthetic doubt about his appearance. With a firm, steady-eyed impudence, which seemed to hold back the threat of some abominable menace, he would proceed to sell over the counter some object looking obviously and scandalously not worth the money which passed in the transaction: a small cardboard box with apparently nothing inside, for instance, or one of those carefully closed yellow flimsy envelopes, or a soiled volume in paper covers with a promising title. Now and then it happened that one of the faded, yellow dancing girls would get sold to an amateur, as though she had been alive and young."
posted by taz 30 July | 12:31
Conrad's 'The Secret Agent'
posted by box 30 July | 12:39
do another! do another!
posted by Miko 30 July | 12:42
(If it is Conrad, I'm giving myself a gold star, too, because I thought, "Hmm, I don't know that, but it sounds like Conrad's style." And if it's not Conrad, well, then, box and I just think alike!)
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 12:43
Doctor Reefy was a tall man who had worn one suit of
clothes for ten years. It was frayed at the sleeves and
little holes had appeared at the knees and elbows. In
the office he wore also a linen duster with huge
pockets into which he continually stuffed scraps of
paper. After some weeks the scraps of paper became
little hard round balls, and when the pockets were
filled he dumped them out upon the floor. For ten years
he had but one friend, another old man named John
Spaniard who owned a tree nursery. Sometimes, in a
playful mood, old Doctor Reefy took from his pockets a
handful of the paper balls and threw them at the
nursery man. "That is to confound you, you blathering
old sentimentalist," he cried, shaking with laughter.
posted by box 30 July | 12:48
yes, Conrad! yes, The Secret Agent!
posted by taz 30 July | 12:50
Though I've known none of these so far, this is awesome.
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 13:00
One afternoon in the autumn of 1851 a solitary horseman, followed by a pack-mule, was pushing through an arid stretch of country somewhere in central New Mexico. He had lost his way, and was trying to get back to the trail, with only his compass and his sense of direction for guides. The difficulty was that the country in which he found himself was so featureless--or rather, that it was crowded with features, all exactly alike. As far as he could see, on every side, the landscape was heaped up into monotonous red sand-hills, not much larger than haycocks, and very much the shape of haycocks. One could not have believed that in the number of square miles a man is able to sweep with the eye there could be so many uniform red hills. He had been riding among them since early morning, and the look of the country had no more changed than if he had stood still. He must have travelled through thirty miles of these conical red hills, winding his way in the narrow cracks between them, and he had begun to think that he would never see anything else. They were so exactly like one another that he seemed to be wandering in some geometrical nightmare; flattened cones, they were, more the shape of Mexican ovens than haycocks--yes, exactly the shape of Mexican ovens, red as brick-dust, and naked of vegetation except for small juniper trees. And the junipers, too, were the shape of Mexican ovens. Every conical hill was spotted with smaller cones of juniper, a uniform yellowish green, as the hills were a uniform red. The hills thrust out of the ground so thickly that they seemed to be pushing each other, elbowing each other aside, tipping each other over.

The blunted pyramid, repeated so many hundred times upon his retina and crowding down upon him in the heat, had confused the traveller, who was sensitive to the shape of things.

"Mais, c'est fantastique!" he muttered, closing his eyes to rest them from the intrusive omnipresence of the triangle.
posted by expialidocious 30 July | 13:14
Winesburg, Ohio, box. Sherwood Anderson and Thomas Wolfe coexist happily in me noggin.

"With the same degree of popularity he recalled those who had been condemned to banishment; took no cognizance of any charges that remained untried from an earlier time; had all documents relating to the cases of his mother and brothers carried to the Forum and burned, to give no informer or witness occasion for further fear, having first loudly called the gods to witness that he had neither read nor touched any of them. He refused a note which was offered him regarding his own safety, maintaining that he had done nothing to make anyone hate him, and that he had no ears for informers. "
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 13:16
Righty-o, Hugh.
posted by box 30 July | 13:22
"So there we were. Me, I was doing my usual hundred and fifty sit-ups. My feet were jammed under the couch for leverage and I was holding a five-pound barbell behind my head like an iron halo. La Donna was in her black Danskins sitting by the wall doing dancercizes. I had a stomach that looked like six miniature cobblestones. LaDonna was so limber that standing without bending her knees, she could work her head down between her legs and kiss her own ass. How very nice for the both of us. She was a twenty-eight-year-old bank clerk and would-be singer; I was a thirty-year-old door-to-door salesman and we both walked around all day like Back to Bataan.

When I was doing my sit-ups I liked to watch TV-Lucy or Fonzie, whatever reruns I could get a hold of. That was not allowed when LaDonna was around. She needed silence to stand there, pull one foot backward, up over her shoulder and tap the base of her skull with her heel. I could have worked out when she wasn't around, but six weeks before, on a Sunday morning adter she finished her dancercizes, she came over to where I was and just sat on it. There are aborigines in New Guinea who have been squatting by an airstrip since 19433 because a plane once landed and dropped off food. Sic weeks ain't that long. Meanwhile, if I needed extra money I could do exhibitions, have two-ton semis drive over my stomach at state fairs."
posted by jonmc 30 July | 13:33
I know the source of jon's quote, but it'd be cheating to identify it since he's the one who introduced me to that book!
posted by BoringPostcards 30 July | 13:34
Yeah, me too, BoPo.
posted by rainbaby 30 July | 14:09
Me three!

I don't know expialidocious' quote. Anyone?

I'm gonna guess Jules Verne.
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 14:13
I feel like the French should be a big hint, but it's not helping me. de Tocqueville? What a crummy guess.
posted by box 30 July | 14:15
Ooh, now that I'm drinking my afternoon Mountain Dew, I think I know. Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop?
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 14:18
Alice Munro? Or that other author I always get confused with Alice Munro?
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:21
Hugh Janus has it on the second guess.
posted by expialidocious 30 July | 14:23
Here's a tougher one:

"It will start in the E.R., at the intake desk if C.T.'s late in following the ambulance, or in the green-tiled room after tge room with the invasive-digital machines; or, given this special M.D.-supplied ambulance, maybe on the ride itself: some blue-jawed M.D. scrubbed to an antiseptic glow with his name sewn in cursive on his white coat's breast pocket and a quality desk-set pen, wanting gurneyside Q&A, etiology and diagnosis by Socratic method, ordered and point-by-point. There are, by the O.E.D. VI's count nineteen nonarchaic synonyms for unresponsive, of which nine are Latinate and four Saxonic. I will play either Stice or Polep in Sunday's final. Maybe in front of Venus Williams. It will be somebody blue-collar and unliscensed, though, inevitably-a nurse's aide with quick-bit nails, a hospital security guard, a tired Cuban orderly who adresses me as jou- who will, looking down in the middle of some kind of bustled task, catch what he sees as my eye and ask So yo man what's your story?"
posted by jonmc 30 July | 14:26
jonmc's first one is reminding me of the Spenser books, but I have no actual clue.
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:27
occhi: Prepeare to say 'Doh!' and slap your forehead. It's Ladies' Man by Richard Price. My man can write, huh?
posted by jonmc 30 July | 14:31
Don't know him (though I like the excerpt). I'm not so good with contemporary writers, for the most part -- or, at least, I'm really hit-and-miss.
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:32
So, still up for grabs:

Hugh's "With the same degree of popularity he recalled those who had been condemned to banishment..."

Jon's "It will start in the E.R., at the intake desk if C.T.'s late in following the ambulance..."
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:34
Don't know him (though I like the excerpt).

The book only gets better from there, I'd highly recommend it, it's an uproariously funny and frighteningly insightful warts-and-all portrait of the male libido. I know that you're sensitive to misogyny, so fair warning: there's a lot in the book that could be taken that way, but like I said it's a warts and all portrait so to write it any other way would be dishonest.
posted by jonmc 30 July | 14:37
jon's might be Infinite Jest, but that also might be wildly wrong.
posted by box 30 July | 14:38
give the box a cheroot!
posted by jonmc 30 July | 14:40
I'm refusing to wait until I guess correctly to post one, because I'm striking out here :-)

"There were fireflies riding on the dark air and a dog baying on some low and far-away ledge of the cliff. The table seemed to have risen a little toward the sky like a mechanical dancing platform, giving the people around it a sense of being alone with each other in the dark universe, nourished by its only food, warmed by its only lights. And, as if a curious hushed laugh from Mrs. McKisco were a signal that such a detachment from the world had been attained, the two Divers began suddenly to warm and glow and expand, as if to make up to their guests, already so subtly assured of their importance, so flattered with politeness, for anything they might still miss from that country well left behind. Just for a moment they seemed to speak to every one at the table, singly and together, assuring them of their friendliness, their affection. And for a moment the faces turned up toward them were like the faces of poor children at a Christmas tree. Then abruptly the table broke up—the moment when the guests had been daringly lifted above conviviality into the rarer atmosphere of sentiment, was over before it could be irreverently breathed, before they had half realized it was there."
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:42
lemme get another:

" 'Traumatic events always happen exactly two years before I reach the maturity level to deal with the' I said, just to hear myself say it out loud.

'Two years from now I could handle my wife running off with an illiterate pool man. Two years from now, I will have the emotional capacity to survive another divorce'

Hints that I might not survive the crisis cut no slack with my daughter. In fact, I wasn't even certain she had heard my little speech. Shannon seemed totally absorbed in aiming a garden hose at the grill of her Mustang. As she rinsed soap off the gleaming chrome her eyes held a distracted softness that reminded me more than somewhat of the softness her mother's eyes used to take on following an orgasm. Now there's an awful thought. According to my two-year theory, a day would come where I could accept my daughter having orgasms, but for now I'd rather drink Drano."
posted by jonmc 30 July | 14:46
Hey, since I answered two correctly, I get another entry (and don't worry, occhi -- "With the same degree of popularity..." is far from contemporary).

---

"Don't ask the world to stop moving because you have doubts."
"Why can't we all move forward together?"
"Because you're all different. You're not lemmings. Some must lead, and hope that the rest will follow."
"Who leads?"
"The men who must ... driven men, compelled men."
"Freak men."
"You're all freaks, sir. But you always have been freaks. Life is a freak. That's its hope and glory."
"Thank you very much."
"My pleasure, sir."
"You've saved the day."
"Always a lovely day somewhere, sir," the robot beamed. Then it fizzed, jangled, and collapsed.
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 14:50
OK, all of jon's are reminding me of Spenser novels. Or perhaps the TV show. They all sound great in my head when read in Robert Urich's voice.
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 14:56
That's odd, since I don't think I've ever read a Spenser novel. I saw the TV show a few times, it was OK.
posted by jonmc 30 July | 15:05
Ah, Spenser:

No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd,
No arborett with painted blossoms drest
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
posted by Hugh Janus 30 July | 15:08
That's odd, since I don't think I've ever read a Spenser novel.

My mother was addicted to the tv show when I was young, so I used to watch it a lot. I remember it being good, but I was young and it was a long time ago.

I'd definitely recommend the novels if you're looking for light detective novels. They're not literary masterpieces but they're fun, and I suspect you'd like them. The earlier ones were much better than the later ones, in my only-slightly-informed opinion.
posted by occhiblu 30 July | 15:13
I'm sure we have cheap copies at my new place of employ. Oddly, none of the three I mentioned are crime novels.
posted by jonmc 30 July | 15:20
My favorite is the one where Hawk shoots it out with the Blatant Beast.
posted by box 30 July | 15:22
Talk to me about sandwiches! || Bunny! OMG!

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