Memphis Book Quotes

Children don’t write their own tragedies. That is the work of adults.

Don’t give your heart to him, Shay,” Darby says softly. “Ford won’t keep it safe. No one ever kept his heart safe growing up and he doesn’t know how to treat anyone any better. It’s not his fault he’s not a good man, but it’ll be your fault if you expect him to be one.

I read a lot.' 'Me, too. One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street Library,' Memphis said, a little cocky. 'Seward Park Library,' Ling answered in kind. 'It's like you're picking baseball teams for books,' Sam said.

I know it’s a mistake, but I’m falling for you.” “I know and it’s fucking beautiful.

I imagined a book that was both written and curated. I wanted readers to see my research, to explore the archival mix, connect with the material, and draw their own conclusions.

My old lady wouldn’t like me putting a dead chick under our house. She’s real particular about smells.

Let me tell you a story,” he says, leaning closer until his lips are an inch from my ear. “Once upon a time, there was a hot piece of tail who dressed like a boy. She wore flannel and baggy jeans and trucker hats. She kept all her pretty curves hidden, but no one was fooled especially not my dick. The end.

I want you to call me tonight when you’re at work,” I say, tense now. “Why?” “So I’ll know you’re safe.” “When do you want me to call?” “Every hour.” Sipping her lemonade, Shay grins. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.” “Why?” I grunt. “I’ll never remember. Besides, it’s a little excessive.” “I’ll call you every hour then.” Shay smiles wider. “Will we talk every hour or will you just ask if I’m dead then hang up once you get your answer?” I lean over and kiss her forehead. Her hair smells so good. I want it spread out across my pillows while I move inside her. I can barely sit still with my cock so hard. “I should get a room at the hotel, so you can spend your breaks with me.” Shay loses her smile. “No.” I run my fingers over her thigh. “I could help you count toilet paper rolls. Even take luggage to rooms for late night guests. How does that sound?” “You’re being weird.” “Is it weird to crave you?” Shay grins. “Yes. You’re weird.” I roll my eyes. “Fuck you for being addictive.” “I’m sorry my pussy is so addictive. Maybe there’s a twelve step program to help you.

It was the Yuletide, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is older than Bethlehem and Babylon, older than Memphis and mankind.

I like you,” she says, but I know this isn’t what she really wants to say. “I like you too especially your tits.” It’s not what I want to say either, but fantasies need lies to keep them alive.

I’ve been with thousands of women and you claimed the one night that you fucked four hundred billion men,” I say and Shay smiles slightly. “Out of all those people, you’re the only one that makes my heart hurt. Do you know how stupid I feel saying my heart hurts? I feel like a damn pussy, but I’m saying the words because they’re true.” “I give you heart trouble,” Shay whispers. “You own my heart. I don’t know if that’s the same thing though.” “For me, it is.

For the purposes of this book, and with apologies to Charleston, Austin, the Portlands, Fort Worth, Indianapolis, Chattanooga, Charlotte, Memphis, San Antonio, and of course Seattle (always special apologies to Seattle), Oklahoma City is the great minor city of America.

An interesting example is found in an article by Dr. Jennifer Roback titled “The Political Economy of Segregation: The Case of Segregated Streetcars,” in the Journal of Economic History (1986). During the late 1800s, private streetcar companies in Augusta, Houston, Jacksonville, Mobile, Montgomery, and Memphis were not segregated, but by the early 1900s, they were. Why? City ordinances forced them to segregate black and white passengers. Numerous Jim Crow laws ruled the day throughout the South mandating segregation in public accommodations.

I don’t believe in love at first sight. People who claim it happens to them are full of shit. They only want to believe what they feel is love. As if the lie makes them special. Losers always need a reason to feel important. Lust at first sight does happen. Years ago, I saw a chick with tits I instantly feel deeply in erection with. While I can’t remember the rest of her, I think her name started with a D.

Suggested Reading Nuha al-Radi, Baghdad Diaries Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin Jane Austen, Emma, Mansfield Park, and Pride and Prejudice Saul Bellow, The Dean’s December and More Die of Heartbreak Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland Joseph Conrad, Under Western Eyes Henry Fielding, Shamela and Tom Jones Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank Henry James, The Ambassadors, Daisy Miller, and Washington Square Franz Kafka, In the Penal Colony and The Trial Katherine Kressman Taylor, Address Unknown Herman Melville, The Confidence Man Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita, Invitation to a Beheading, and Pnin Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed Firs Iraj Pezeshkzad, My Uncle Napoleon Diane Ravitch, The Language Police Julie Salamon, The Net of Dreams Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis Scheherazade, A Thousand and One Nights F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby W. G. Sebald, The Emigrants Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries Joseph Skvorecky, The Engineer of Human Souls Muriel Spark, Loitering with Intent and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie Italo Svevo, Confessions of Zeno Peter Taylor, A Summons to Memphis Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups and St. Maybe Mario Vargas Llosa, Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter Reading

Basically, Sam Phillips recorded Bill Haley, Johnny Cash, and all those other Memphis guys; Chuck Berry played the top two strings; Elvis appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show above the waist; the Beatles made all the girls squirm by singing about wanting to hold their “hands”; Ray Davies got lost in a sunset; Pete Townshend smashed his guitar; Brian Wilson heard magic in his head and made it come out of a studio; the Rolling Stones urinated on a garage door; and then (skipping a bit) you’ve got Joey Levine and Chapman-Chinn and Mott the Hoople and Iggy and the Runaways and KISS and the Pink Fairies and Rick Nielsen and Jonathan Richman and Johnny Ramone and Lemmy and the Young brothers and Cook and Jones and Pete Shelley and Feargal Sharkey and Rob Halford … and Foghat. You get what I’m saying. It didn’t happen in a vacuum, but it did happen, and now here we are in the aftermath.

I look at you and my heart beats faster and my stomach gets butterflies in that annoying teenage crush way. When you do nice shit for me, I want more. I’m selfish that way.

I like your story,” I say, running my hand up his sweater. “Happy endings are sexy.” Ford grins. “When you say shit like that, I can’t believe you don’t hear how fucking dirty you sound.

It’s rock and roll, sugar. Guys shouldn’t sound like angels. They should sound like sick bastards who’ll butt fuck your little sister and leave her with herpes.

I’m sorry my pussy is so addictive. Maybe there’s a twelve step program to help you.

Before the cotton crash, though, the Delta’s main problem was that black people had begun to migrate to the North to work in factories. The main transportation routes out of the Delta led straight north. The Illinois Central Railroad, which was by far the most powerful economic actor in Mississippi, had bought the Delta’s main rail system in 1892; its passengers and freight hooked up in Memphis with the main Illinois Central line, which ran from New Orleans to Chicago, paralleling the route of U.S. Highway 51. U.S. Highway 61, paralleling the Mississippi River, passed through Clarksdale; U.S. 49, running diagonally northwest through the Delta from Jackson, Mississippi, met 61 on the outskirts of Clarksdale.

There are two things that could survive a nuclear war: cockroaches and the myth of the gender pay gap. … young women who don’t have kids are outearning their male peers. According to data from the U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey, unmarried, childless females under age 30 who live in cities earn 8 percent more than their male peers in 147 of 150 U.S. cities. In Atlanta and Memphis, the figure is approximately 20 percent more, while young women in New York City, Los Angeles, and San Diego make 17 percent, 12 percent, and 15 percent more, respectively. Besides, even if men and women do earn different sums, statistical disparity doesn’t always mean discrimination—sometimes they are the reward for life choices, which is fair. This is good news, unless you crave victimhood.

Soul

Out of the many Owens, the couple he most admired was Seth and Janine. This couple had endured tragedy and came out stronger. There was already a book about the trials of their life titled It Won’t Prosper written by Memphis’ own Genevieve D. Woods. With all that in mind, Kevin was elated to dine with this great family in his home.

In 1969 the Swedish folklorist Bengt Olsson and his partner, Peter Mahlin, spent a summer loitering around Beale Street in Memphis, interviewing and recording blues musicians. I'm certain it was hot, thankless work. In 1970, Olsson compiled some of those interviews into a short, now long-out-of-print book called Memphis Blues. In it, Olsson recounts a conversation with the guitarist Furry Lewis, who was born in Greenwood, Mississippi, in 1893 and come up playing blues with the Memphis legend W.C. Handy. Olsson never did much editorializing on the page - he just presented the material he'd collected - but there's a quote toward the end of the Lewis chapter that's become lodged permanently in my cortex, repeating endlessly like a koan: 'The people I used to play around with, they all done died out,' Lewis tells Olsson. 'And sometimes I get scared myself, 'cause it look like to me it gonna be mine next. You know, it's a funny thing, but you can do a thing for a-many years, and all of them die out and you still here,' he continued. 'And you know, that's more than a notion if you come up and just think about it.' I had thought about it. And I knew they were all still here, together, etched into shellac, tucked into sleeves. I could hear them.

To Miss Gianna Floyd - I wrote you a black fairytale I understand if you not ready to read it yet or if your mama told you wait a bit and that just fine this book aint going nowhere this book gon be right here whoever you want it whenever you get finished playing outside in that bright beautiful world your daddy loved so much child, it's just right to set this aside Lord knows not a soul on this earth gon blame you for being out in it -- running laughing breathing

reason,

Healing didn’t mean the pain no longer existed. It simply gave her enough power to no longer let that pain control her.

That same weekend in Memphis, I stayed with my older half sister, Tanya. We share a father, but not a childhood. She was not in the book. One of her greatest accomplishments happened when I was ten and she was seventeen and called our father to tell him she had just married a man who was twenty-seven, a world record. He put the phone down, and quietly explained to my mother what Tanya had done, and then he sat there in the recliner and stared out the window like a man who'd learned exactly what he'd just learned.

Dear friends and enemies, Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows! Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it! Number one: I ended a war. You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone … Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love! There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire. Next: Decline of Florida Roundup. —They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one? —Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something. —They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks. —Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results. —In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me. Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition…In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008—ouch!)

Somehow, somewhere, in the past few months, Boston has become the place where I feel most at home—not the rooted feeling that my grandmother expressed [in Memphis], that where you live is where you must live, but the happenstance feeling of a transplant who knows that things change, that people move on and away. It is a city that reminds me we don’t always arrive where we once intended to go.

As we talked, I watched her eat - an act that for her was innocuous and for me would have been a sin. For her, Jewishness had nothing to do with whether she ate this muffin. Unlike me, with my family's six generations in Memphis and my all-Orthodox world, she was from a family of mostly secular Holocaust survivors. For her, Judaism was about history and memory and trying to sort out what it all added up to. It made me sad to realize that my experience of Judaism had become reduced to whether or not I followed the rules. With each bite she took, my feeling grew larger. Not everywhere in the Jewish world did you have to live according to ideas you didn't agree with, offer explanations for observances you didn't believe in.

gives more than it takes. Unconditional. Fulfilling. Yours and yours alone.” When her head lowered, he lifted it again. “One you don’t have to share with anyone else. Can you honestly tell me you don’t want that? A love, a man, that’s yours and yours alone?

I’m not talking about familial or platonic love. I’m talking about the love that completes you and makes you feel safe, secure, and warm in a cold world. The kind of love that makes you feel invincible. Like you’re never alone. The kind of love that

I love you, and I’m going to protect you. I can’t apologize for that or tell you it won’t happen again. What I can say is that I’ll try not to react so quickly physically, but I’ll go to war with God behind you, so it’s really off with these niggas heads while we’re on earth.

During the murder investigation, police would remove boxes of Metallica and Slayer T-shirts and Stephen King books from the trailers where Damien Echols and Jason Baldwin lived, proof they would submit, of the pair’s satanic leanings. Jason Baldwin would later ask why the officers did not take any of his white T-shirts as evidence.

Resentment was like a disease that destroyed from the inside out.