Short Bookshelf Quotes

Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.

...Mr. Wodehouse is a prose stylist of such startling talent that Frankie nearly skipped around with glee when she first read some of his phrases. Until her discovery of Something Fresh on the top shelf of Ruth's bookshelf one bored summer morning, Frankie's leisure reading had consister primarily of paperback mysteries she found on the spinning racks at the public library down the block from her house, and the short stories of Dorothy Parker. Wodehouse's jubilant wordplay bore itself into her synapses like a worm into a fresh ear of corn.

You don’t need to bend over backward, buddy,” the boy said, leaning against a bookshelf. “There’s no reason you have to read intimidating books. Don’t try so hard — just enjoy the chance meetings.

I tell him how Becket ended up finishing and making a mess on the bookshelf. “The wooden part,” I clarify, my breathing coming in short bursts. “I never would have let him—on the books—biological debris—” “Good. Biological debris on the books was my chief concern,” he says in a grave tone.

So we wouldn't run out of things to talk about over lunch, I tried to read a trendy new short-story collection called Wok that I bought at Barnes & Noble last night and whose young author was recently profiled in the Fast Track section of New York magazine, but every story started off with the line "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie" and I had to put this slim volume back into my bookshelf and drink a J&B on the rocks, followed by two Xanax, to recover from the effort.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: no man who has ever voted against abortion could handle being pregnant. Not one of those ham-faced assemblages of fear, misogyny and idiocy could handle having their skin, muscle and bones torn apart by an unborn child. Not one of them would undergo three months of daily vomiting, existential terror, occasional bleeding, constant nausea and unshakeable fatigue, followed by another six months of aching joints, short breath, decreased mobility, near-incontinence, fear and exhaustion for the sake of something that may not even survive. Not one of them could give up their status, their ability to work, their financial security, their freedom of thought and movement, their whole previous way of life, in order to grow something in their bodies that they never even wanted – it is hard enough when you do want it.

Books and bookcases cropping up in stuff that I've written means that they have to be reproduced on stage or on film. This isn't as straightforward as it might seem. A designer will either present you with shelves lined with gilt-tooled library sets, the sort of clubland books one can rent by the yard as decor, or he or she will send out for some junk books from the nearest second-hand bookshop and think that those will do. Another short cut is to order in a cargo of remaindered books so that you end up with a shelf so garish and lacking of character it bears about as much of a relationship to literature as a caravan site does to architecture. A bookshelf is as particular to its owner as are his or her clothes; a personality is stamped on a library just as a shoe is shaped to the foot.

Eventually he stood and pulled a slim volume off his bookshelf. About halfway through the thin leather journal he found the most often cited quote of the Third Age Imperial omnimancer Salam Abdus. Note, dear reader, that destiny is like a cat that you wish to call to you. Give it your attention, try to coax it into place, and it shall have naught to do with you. Play coy as a maiden, and it shall surely come running. Yet turn your back on the bastard at your deepest peril. Jynn took a deep breath. Regrettably little remained of Adbus’ teachings; he was most famous for this observation being quoted in Nove’s Lex Infortunii, wherein the great philosopher-scientist noted that shortly after writing the quote, Abdus was eaten by a Dire Ocelot.

But a written policy is one thing; its implementation is quite another. Robert Murphy took personal charge of the political oversight of U.S. denazification work in Germany almost immediately, and he made little secret of his inclinations. Meanwhile, the sensitive task of overseeing U.S. intelligence evaluations of German business and political leaders fell to an enterprising OSS man who was stationed in Berlin shortly after Hitler’s suicide. It was Allen Dulles.

Shortly before World War I, a secretive and disciplined cabal of young Turkish military officers known as the Ittihad took power in Turkey and brought the country into an alliance with Germany. These were the original “Young Turks,” and their capacity for cruelty and violence still reverberates in that phrase today.

Shortly after the German collapse, for example, Tito’s government in Yugoslavia wished to try as a war criminal Miklós Horthy, who had been royal regent of Hungary and supreme commander of Hungary’s armed forces during its years of alliance with Nazi Germany. Horthy also shared personal responsibility for establishing Hungary’s anti-Semitic race laws and other persecutory measures.

The similarities between the Armenian Genocide and the Holocaust suggest that the “Nazi problem” in postwar Germany is only partially traceable to the pressures of the cold war. Throughout the twentieth century, regardless of the prevailing atmosphere in East-West relations, most powerful states have attended to genocide only insofar as it has affected their own stability and short-term interests. Almost without exception, they have dealt with the aftermath of genocide primarily as a means to increase their power and preserve their license to impose their version of order, regardless of the price to be paid in terms of elementary justice.

Harry S Truman, then a senator from Missouri, went a step further: The U.S. should extend aid to Europe, he contended shortly after the Nazi invasion of the USSR, but give it to “whatever side seemed to be losing. If we see that Germany is winning we ought to help Russia, and if Russia is winning we ought to help Germany and in that way let them kill as many as possible.