Lane Smith Quotes

It's a book, jackass.

Sex was lovely. Sex was sublime. Sex was flesh and cock and suck and fuck and come. This night sex was starlight. Sex was oxygen. Sex was us, and we were beautiful, beautiful and perfect in each other's arms.

How do you scroll down?" "I don't, I turn the page. It's a book." "Do you blog with it?" "No, it's a book.

He that reads, be it on yon Kindle or on yon book made from pulp, is he who shall not be called a jackass.

Marcus’s appearance the day before had been discussed, dissected, analyzed, and—by Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, Honoria’s cousin and one of her closest friends —rendered into poetry. “He came in the rain,” Sarah intoned. “The day had been plain.” Honoria nearly spit out her tea. “It was muddy, this lane—” Cecily Royle smiled slyly over her teacup. “Have you considered free verse?” “—our heroine, in pain—” “I was cold,” Honoria put in. Iris Smythe-Smith, another of Honoria’s cousins, looked up with her signature dry expression. “I am in pain,” she stated. “Specifically, my ears.” Honoria shot Iris a look that said clearly, Be polite. Iris just shrugged. “—her distress, she did feign—” “Not true!” Honoria protested. “You can’t interfere with genius,” Iris said sweetly. “—her schemes, not in vain—” “This poem is devolving rapidly,” Honoria stated. “I am beginning to enjoy it,” said Cecily. “—her existence, a bane . . .” Honoria let out a snort. “Oh, come now!” “I think she’s doing an admirable job,” Iris said, “given the limitations of the rhyming structure.” She looked over at Sarah, who had gone quite suddenly silent. Iris cocked her head to the side; so did Honoria and Sarah. Sarah’s lips were parted, and her left hand was still outstretched with great drama, but she appeared to have run out of words. “Cane?” Cecily suggested. “Main?” “Insane?” offered Iris. “Any moment now,” Honoria said tartly, “if I’m trapped here much longer with you lot.

The memories that went with the house—the sense of unfairness and failure, the patched hole in the kitchen wall—were too raw. Frank felt as though he had been tricked out of his entire life and the best part of that life had been lived at 51 Smith Lane,

LJS: rrr! K? lol! JIM: :( ! :)

But there is something I want to capture. It has to do with the feeling I had when I watched the Cottons coming down the lane, the queer separate feeling. I like seeing people when they can’t see me. I have often looked at our family through lighted windows and they seem quite different, a bit the way rooms seen in looking-glasses do. I can’t get the feeling into words — it slipped away when I tried to capture it.

I found it after the soldiers came and I kept it. I don’t know why because at that point I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again. But then when I uncovered it this morning, I knew… that is…” She reached out and flipped the pages of the notebook until the last page lay open in his hands. She’d written something there. He bent and read. I love you, Beast. I love you, Caliban. I love you, Apollo. I love you, Romeo. I love you, Smith. I love you, Gardener. I love you, Aristocrat. I love you, Lover. I love you, Husband. I love you, Friend. I love you, You. He inhaled and looked up. She was twisting her hands together. “For a writer, I’m awfully ineloquent. I don’t know—” He dropped the notebook and pulled her into his arms, kissing her passionately. He held her sweet face between his palms and caressed her temples with his thumbs as he opened his mouth over hers, inhaling her gasp. When at last he drew back, he whispered against her lips, “Do you know where we are?” “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes closed. “At the heart of the maze.” And when she opened her lichen-green eyes he saw all the love he’d ever hoped for shining in her eyes just for him. “At your heart—and mine.

He’s staying at the Lilac Lane Bed and Breakfast—under the name Joe Smith.

What if he’d succumbed and attacked Petra? Or Viktor? Or his family two lanes over?

At General Smith’s directions, Chet presently eased the car off the highway and onto a rutted trail overgrown with weeds. There was no sign of the black sedan or any evidence that a car had recently entered the lane. “This was a fine place once,” the general said. “Those boxwoods over there are all that’s left of a wonderful garden which stretched from the road to the mansion. My father had pictures of the old place.” At the general’s suggestion, Chet stopped the car alongside a low, crumbling wall. “Look over there,” the man continued, extending his arm in a gesture toward a cluster of large oak trees which seemed to form a military phalanx. “That’s where the big white house stood.” The ruins of the old mansion were scarcely visible through the tall grass and brush, which acted as the scar tissue of time to cover the wounds left by the war. The four got out of the car and pushed through the weeds toward the area. The officer stopped and held his two hands parallel in front of him. “The steps to the front portico were right here. They led into the beautiful center hall of one of the most picturesque homes in the whole South. “And look what’s left now—nothing,” General Smith remarked sadly. “Nothing but ghostly memories.

The impact a human being has on the lives of those around them is what survives beyond death and echoes into eternity.

You don't have to be perfect to be worthy of respect. You just need to be taking action toward your goal. The more actions you take, the more respect you earn.

Soon an Amish gray-topped buggy came along, clamored through the covered bridge, and continued down the lane to a farm over the hill. There was something about the horse-drawn carriages of the Amish that spoke of a slower pace of life and an earlier time where the things that mattered in life were always in the forefront.

The old—and never especially helpful—adage write what you know has morphed into something more like a threat: Stay in your lane. This principle permits the category of fiction, but really only to the extent that we acknowledge and confess that personal experience is inviolate and nontransferable. It concedes that personal experience may be displayed, very carefully, to the unlike-us, to the stranger, even to the enemy—but insists it can never truly be shared by them. This rule also pertains in the opposite direction: the experience of the unlike-us can never be co-opted, ventriloquized, or otherwise “stolen” by us. (As the philosopher Anthony Appiah has noted, these ideas of cultural ownership share some DNA with the late-capitalist concept of brand integrity.) Only those who are like us are like us. Only those who are like us can understand us—or should even try. Which entire philosophical edifice depends on visibility and legibility, that is, on the sense that we can be certain of who is and isn’t “like us” simply by looking at them and/or listening to what they have to say. Fiction didn’t believe any of that. Fiction suspected that there is far more to people than what they choose to make manifest. Fiction wondered what likeness between selves might even mean, given the profound mystery of consciousness itself, which so many other disciplines—most notably philosophy—have probed for millennia without reaching any definitive conclusions. Fiction was suspicious of any theory of the self that appeared to be largely founded on what can be seen with the human eye, that is, those parts of our selves that are material, manifest, and clearly visible in a crowd. Fiction—at least the kind that was any good—was full of doubt, self-doubt above all. It had grave doubts about the nature of the self.

the atheist philosopher Quentin Smith unceremoniously crowned Stephen Hawking’s argument against God in A Brief History of Time as “the worst atheistic argument in the history of Western thought.”[3] With the advent of The God Delusion the time has come, I think, to relieve Hawking of this weighty crown and to recognize Richard Dawkins’ accession to the throne.

Roppongi is an interzone, the land of gaijin bars, always up late. I’m waiting at a pedestrian crossing when I see her. She’s probably Australian, young and quite serviceably beautiful. She wears very expensive, very sheer black undergarments, and little else, save for some black outer layer—equally sheer, skintight, and micro-short—and some gold and diamonds to give potential clients the right idea. She steps past me, into four lanes of traffic, conversing on her phone in urgent Japanese. Traffic halts obediently for this triumphantly jaywalking gaijin in her black suede spikes. I watch her make the opposite curb, the brain-cancer deflector on her slender little phone swaying in counterpoint to her hips. When the light changes, I cross, and watch her high-five a bouncer who looks like Oddjob in a Paul Smith suit, his skinny lip beard razored with micrometer precision. There’s a flash of white as their palms meet. Folded paper. Junkie origami.