Filth Novel Quotes

Rorschach's Journal: October 12th, 1985 Dog carcass in alley this morning, tire tread on burst stomach. This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "Save us!"... and I'll look down and whisper "No.

Godly womanhood ... the very phrase sounds strange in our ears. We never hear it now. We hear about every other type of women: beautiful women, smart women, sophisticated women, career women, talented women, divorced women. But so seldom do we hear of a godly woman - or of a godly man either, for that matter.We believe women come nearer to fulfilling their God-given function in the home than anywhere else. It is a much nobler thing to be a good wife, than to be Miss America. It is a greater achievement to establish a Christian home than it is to produce a second-rate novel filled with filth. It is a far, far better thing in the realms of morals to be old-fashioned, than to be ultra-modern. The world has enough women who know how to be smart. It needs women who are willing to be simple. The world has enough women who know how to be brilliant. It needs some who will be brave. The world has enough women who are popular. It needs more who are pure. We need women, and men, too, who would rather be morally right than socially correct.

To survive? What is that? A mouse lives, a fly lives; one flees in terror, another lives in filth. They exist, they are, but do they live?

Light was something you gave me; warmth was something you brought me. All the blood that races through my heart is because of you. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it to today.

I will give it to you. I'll give you a home.

It was you who gave me faith...and in the end, you were the reason I lost that faith. You said I didn't care about anything, that I had nothing to lose, so it didn't matter. But when you stepped onto that path, do you know what I lost? I was never the person who didn't care. It was you.

He only knew that Gu Mang was alive. That was enough.

Gu Mang had been his companion, his rival, his shixiong, his comrade in arms - and in the end, Gu Mang became an enemy he was meant to slaughter.

Light was something you gave me; warmth was something you brought me. All the blood that races through my heart is because of you. Without you, I wouldn't have made it to today.

Get blood on me—I don’t mind. Give me your hand. No matter how dirty you are, I will embrace you. No matter how much it hurts, I will stay with you. No matter how far it is, I will bring you home.

You remember his malice, but you’re unable to forget his kindness,” the emperor continued. “You hate that he yet lives, but if you were to really see his blood spilled, your heart couldn’t handle it.

After Gu Mang had sobered, he stopped shouting. Yet for some reason, Mo Xi always got the feeling that although Gu Mang was smiling, there was something else behind that smile - something he couldn't clearly see.

None of the knew what this noble young master who `didn't understand their suffering` had secretly sacrificed to keep them alive - to ensure those born with Gu Mang's same status wouldn't be condemned to a lifetime of powerlessness from the day they were born.

They were enemies, separated by a chasm of accumulated hatred only death could resolve. But before this had come to pass, before they had parted ways, these two youths had once been passionately entangled—until love became one with desire. Until they were loath to part.

Ah, to be honest, it was only because of Gu Mang that I enlisted. I once even drank with him around a fire. He didn't put on any airs, either. Back then...back then, as I watched him laugh, I thought - if one day I could die for him in battle, it would be a good way to go.

One could have said that he'd lived twenty-seven years without evr making a single major mistake. Except for Gu Mang. For Mo Xi, Gu Mang was like ink on a paper or mud in the snow, the suggestive smear of blood left upon the pristine white of a gentleman's bedsheets. He was the stain on Mo Xi's life.

His very presence seem to bring laughter and sweetness to the battlefield, as thought such places could be more than freezing cold and crimson blood.

Was this what meant to reap what you sow? To be the arhitect of your own destruction?

But…you look like you’re in pain…like it really hurts. “Hating me, it hurts you?

You nearly killed me.” Just because, back then, I loved you more than I feared death.

Don't worry, even if you're no longer a noble young master, you'll always be you. There's an ember in your heart, and sooner or later, it will glow. I can see it, and others will too.

He grew jealous of Gu Mang, doubted him, and stripped him off his authority. He even crossed a line Gu Mang couldn't possibly endure. Mo Xi watched Gu Mang fall into the abyss with his own eyes.

Of course it obeys me.” he said with barely contained fury. ”Because your sigil used my blood, and your sigil was drawn by my hand, because...the one who created this array was never you - it was me.

He thought of Gu Mang in their academy days, standing with his back to Mo Xi and sighing with exasperation. `Shidi, you work too hard. Can you still move your legs? Come here, get on my back. I'll take you home.

most common people oft he market-place much prefer light literature to improving books. The problem is, that so many romances contain slanderous anecdotes about sovereigns and ministers or cast aspersions upon man’s wives and daughters so that they are packed with sex and violence. Even worse are those writers of the breeze-and-moonlight school, who corrupt the young with pornography and filth. As for books of the beauty-and-talented-scholar type, a thousand are written to a single pattern and none escapes bordering on indecency. They are filled with allusions to handsome, talented young men and beautiful, refined girls in history; but in order to insert a couple of his own love poems, the author invents stereotyped heroes and heroines with the inevitable low character to make trouble between them like a clown in a play, and makes even the slave girls talk pedantic nonsense. So all these novels are full of contradictions and absurdly unnatural.

To borrow from Budd Schulberg’s description of a media manipulator in his classic novel The Harder They Fall, I was “indulging myself in the illusions that we can deal in filth without becoming the thing we touch.” I no longer have those illusions.

It was Gu Mang who had brought his brothers crawling back, who had returned the bodies of the dead. He'd seen hope, he'd seen the future, and so he had roared, enduring it all to say: ”Come, everything's okay, You've named me General Gu, so I'll bring you home no matter what.

I’ve never been drunk. Only once did I have a little too much, just that once. You saw me, you teased me, and you forgave me. From then on, I kept myself strictly in check and never allowed myself such lack of restraint again. How did you forget? How could you forget? How dare you forget!

The only circumstance under which Mo Xi could imagine amiably sharing a jug of wine with Gu Mang was in a cemetery, with Gu Mang buried in the earth, and himself standing upon it. Then he might talk to the man like he once had, and place a bouquet of red peonies shaped from spiritual energy on his grave.

Gu Mang was a man of his word. He traded fur coats for wine and spirit jades for meat, and once he even took off all his military robes and armour and tossed them on the bar in exchange for nuerhong rice wine, at which point the army thugs started laughing and heckling him `General Gu, we want beef too. Do you have anything else you could take off?

What seemed to interest and absorb her most was that all that filth, all that chaos of broken limbs and dug-out eyes and split heads was then covered—literally covered—by a church dedicated to San Giovanni Battista and by a monastery of Augustinian hermits who had a valuable library. Ah, ah—she laughed—underneath there’s blood and above, God, peace, prayer, and books.

This is one possible answer to the deflationary sensation so perfectly captured in a question mark in Jane Gardam’s novel of the dissolution of the Raj, Old Filth: ‘When empires end, there’s often a dazzling finale – then—?’31 Well, perhaps empires don’t quite end when you think they do. Perhaps they have a final moment of zombie existence. This may be the last stage of imperialism – having appropriated everything else from its colonies, the dead empire appropriates the pain of those it has oppressed.

THE ANTHEM OF HOPE Tiny footprints in mud, metal scraps among thistles Child who ambles barefooted through humanity’s war An Elderflower in mud, landmines hidden in bristles Blood clings to your feet, your wee hands stiff and sore You who walk among trenches, midst our filth and our gore Box of crayons in hand, your tears tumble like crystals Gentle, scared little boy, at the heel of Hope Valley, The grassy heel of Hope Valley. And the bombs fall-fall-fall Down the slopes of Hope Valley Bayonets cut-cut-cut Through the ranks of Hope Valley Napalm clouds burn-burn-burn All who fight in Hope Valley, All who fall in Hope Valley. Bullets fly past your shoulder, fireflies light the sky Child who digs through the trenches for his long sleeping father You plant a kiss on his forehead, and you whisper goodbye Vain corpses, brave soldiers, offered as cannon fodder Nothing is left but a wall; near its pallor you gather Crayon ready, you draw: the memory of a lie Kind, sad little boy, sketching your dream of Hope Valley Your little dream of Hope Valley. Missiles fly-fly-fly Over the fields of Hope Valley Carabines shoot-shoot-shoot The brave souls of Hope Valley And the tanks shell-shell-shell Those who toiled for Hope Valley, Those who died for Hope Valley. In the light of gunfire, the little child draws the valley Every trench is a creek; every bloodstain a flower No battlefield, but a garden with large fields ripe with barley Ideations of peace in his dark, final hour And so the child drew his future, on the wall of that tower Memories of times past; your tiny village lush alley Great, brave little boy, the future hope of Hope Valley The only hope of Hope Valley. And the grass grows-grows-grows On the knolls of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom Across the hills of Hope Valley The midday sun shines-shines-shines On the folk of Hope Valley On the dead of Hope Valley From his Aerodyne fleet The soldier faces the carnage Uttering words to the fallen He commends their great courage Across a wrecked, tower wall A child’s hand limns the valley And this drawing speaks volumes Words of hope, not of bally He wipes his tears and marvels The miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley And the grass grows-grows-grows Midst all the dead of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom For all the dead of Hope Valley The evening sun sets-sets-sets On the miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley (lyrics to "the Anthem of Hope", a fictional song featured in Louise Blackwick's Neon Science-Fiction novel "5 Stars".

To borrow from Budd Schulberg’s description of a media manipulator in his classic novel The Harder They Fall, I was “indulging myself in the illusions that we can deal in filth without becoming the thing we touch.” I no longer have those illusions. Winston Churchill wrote of the appeasers of his age that “each one hopes that if he feeds the crocodile enough, the crocodile will eat him last.” I was even more delusional. I thought I could skip being devoured entirely. It would never turn on me. I was in control. I was the expert. But I was wrong.

Under these circumstances the most anodyne book was a source of danger from the simple fact that love was alluded to, and woman depicted as an attractive creature; and this was enough to account for all—for the inherent ignorance of Catholics, since it was proclaimed as the preventive cure for temptations—for the instinctive horror of art, since to these craven souls every written and studied work was in its nature a vehicle of sin and an incitement to fall. Would it not really be far more sensible and judicious to open the windows, to air the rooms, to treat these souls as manly beings, to teach them not to be so much afraid of their own flesh, to inculcate the firmness and courage needed for resistance? For really it is rather like a dog which barks at your heels and snaps at your legs if you are afraid of him, but who beats a retreat if you turn on him boldly and drive him off. The fact remains that these schemes of education have resulted, on the one hand, in the triumph of the flesh in the greater number of men who have been thus brought up and then thrown into a worldly life, and on the other, in a wide diffusion of folly and fear, an abandonment of the possessions of the intellect and the capitulation of the Catholic army surrendering without a blow to the inroads of profane literature, which takes possession of territory that it has not even had the trouble of conquering. This really was madness! The Church had created art, had cherished it for centuries; and now by the effeteness of her sons she was cast into a corner. All the great movements of our day, one after the other—romanticism, naturalism—had been effected independently of her, or even against her will. If a book were not restricted to the simplest tales, or pleasing fiction ending in virtue rewarded and vice punished, that was enough; the propriety of beadledom was at once ready to bray. As soon as the most modern form of art, the most malleable and the broadest—the Novel—touched on scenes of real life, depicted passion, became a psychological study, an effort of analysis, the army of bigots fell back all along the line. The Catholic force, which might have been thought better prepared than any others to contest the ground which theology had long since explored, retired in good order, satisfied to cover its retreat by firing from a safe distance, with its old-fashioned match-lock blunderbusses, on works it had neither inspired nor written. The Church party, centuries behind the time, and having made no attempt to follow the evolution of style in the course of ages, now turned to the rustic who can scarcely read; it did not understand more than half of the words used by modern writers, and had become, it must be said, a camp of the illiterate. Incapable of distinguishing the good from the bad, it included in one condemnation the filth of pornography and real works of art; in short, it ended by emitting such folly and talking such preposterous nonsense, that it fell into utter discredit and ceased to count at all. And it would have been so easy for it to work on a little way, to try to keep up with the times, and to understand, to convince itself whether in any given work the author was writing up the Flesh, glorifying it, praising it, and nothing more, or whether, on the contrary, he depicted it merely to buffet it—hating it. And, again, it would have done well to convince itself that there is a chaste as well as a prurient nude, and that it should not cry shame on every picture in which the nude is shown. Above all, it ought to have recognized that vices may well be depicted and studied with a view to exciting disgust of them and showing their horrors.

It is a much nobler thing to be a good wife than to be Miss America. It is a greater achievement to establish a Christian home than it is to produce a second-rate novel filled with filth.

Soon after meeting Chadwick in person, Dickens began to incorporate the miasmatic and filth theories into his novels, starting with Martin Chuzzlewit (1843–1844) and Dombey and Son (1848), where the concepts are clearly delineated.

You’re both a couple of never minds,” she said. “A couple of whats?” Steenie asked her. “My father doesn’t want me to use the word. He says it’s a sign of a weak vocabulary. But you are. Both of you.” “Are what?” I asked. “Bastards.” Steenie dropped his spoon and looked at her aghast. “Marcia! A word like that coming from your sweet lips! I’m disgusted.” “I’m going to throw up my malt, right here on the table,” I said. “Language like that makes my stomach turn over. Argghhh! I’ll never be the same again; I’ve been in contact with true filth.” Marcia looked solemnly at Steenie and then at me. “Oh, shit,” she said evenly. “That’s my girl.” Steenie said. “Now you’re talking,” I said. “That’s my good old Marcia.

We were getting ready to close the store for what we thought might be as long as two months now. I was looking over the day’s reports when Dissatisfaction came into the building. His fingers roamed along the spines of the books, sometimes tracing one, pulling it out to read the first line. Since he’d read The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald, he and I had compiled a list of short perfect novels. Short Perfect Novels Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai These are books that knock you sideways in around 200 pages. Between the covers there exists a complete world. The story is unforgettably peopled and nothing is extraneous. Reading one of these books takes only an hour or two but leaves a lifetime imprint. Still, to Dissatisfaction, they are but exquisite appetizers. Now he needs a meal. I knew that he’d read Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels and was lukewarm. He called them soap opera books, which I thought was the point. He did like The Days of Abandonment, which was perhaps a short perfect novel. ‘She walked the edge with that one,’ he said. He liked Knausgaard (not a short perfect). He called the writing better than Novocain. My Struggle had numbed his mind but every so often, he told me, he’d felt the crystal pain of the drill. In desperation, I handed over The Known World. He thrust it back in outrage, his soft voice a hiss, Are you kidding me? I have read this one six times. Now what do you have? In the end, I placated him with Aravind Adiga’s White Tiger, the latest Amitav Ghosh, NW by Zadie Smith, and Jane Gardam’s Old Filth books in a sturdy Europa boxed set, which he hungrily seized. He’d run his prey to earth and now he would feast. Watching him closely after he paid for the books and took the package into his hands, I saw his pupils dilate the way a diner’s do when food is brought to the table.

Exposing filth and discovering the truth are two different things. The former is reporting, the latter is journalism.

Mo Xi. It's fine, don't be sad. No matter what, we'll always be together. No matter how hard things get, I'll pull this through. Come on, let's go home.” -Gu Mang

Li Wei thought, Tell you? What am I supposed to tell you? Have you seen that temper of yours?! If I said Gu Mang might not have understood Wangshu-jun’s question, you’d leap to your feet and kick me to death!

Life is no finishing school for young ladies. Everyone speaks the way he is made. The protocol chief, Dr. Guth, speaks differently from Palivec, the landlord of The Chalice, and this novel is neither a handbook of drawing-room refinement nor a teaching manual of expressions to be used in polite society. . . . It was once said, and very rightly, that a man who is well brought-up may read anything. The only people who boggle at what is perfectly natural are those who are the worst swine and the finest experts in filth. In their utterly contemptible pseudo-morality they ignore the contents and madly attack individual words.

I'm worthy of being called your shige, your brother. Get blood on me - I don't mind. Give me your hand. No matter how dirty you are, I will embrace you. No matter how much it hurts, I will stay with you. No matter how far it is, I will bring you home. -Gu Mang

I don't know what a `lord` is. But...it sounds okay. I want it to be you. -Gu Mang

No matter what, I'll wait for you. I'll keep waiting, no matter how long it takes. But remember this: If you lie to me again - if I find out you're still lying to me - I won't be stabbed in the same place twice.

Mo Xi, for me, the way up is a dead end. I have nowhere to go - I can only fumble toward hell.

...although the death of an old friend was agonizing, it could not compare to the pain of an old friend irrevocably changed. When he thought of how this person yet remained on the earth but could never return to the past; of how their deep emotion had decayed, how their shared path had split into two unlike roads, how his beloved had become his enemy -- that was a suffering that brought agony with each breath,

He was like an idiot beyond saving, angrily reminding himself he could never again make the same mistake while continuing to hang himself again and again on the same tree.

...impulses start off potent, and wane as time passes and consideration sets in.

Getting on your knees denotes submission, humility, and deference. But there's none of that in your face. You've only bent your knees; your back is still straight.

Gu Mang didn't understand that some people's hearts shouldn't be touched. They never played around; rather, they were the solitary guardians of the pure affection they held cupped in their hands. They had only a little bit of romance in their hearts, just enough to lavish on a singular person in all their life.