Sparrow James Hynes Quotes

If Christians are always fighting each other,' I say, 'why do they always say, “Peace be with you”?

A spark embedded in a body meant for the use of others, shining for no one in the dark.

A slave digs his own pit and stands in it, peering over the edge at everyone else's feet and counting himself lucky whenever they don't step on him. That's what Aristotle thought, anyway.

Perhaps what Aristotle and Seneca were saying boils down to the same infinite regress, a pair of facing mirrors in which my own image recedes into the distance, until I dissolve in the darkness: I do what I'm told because I'm a slave, and I'm a slave because I do what I'm told.

But once violence has been expended and empire has taken some person, place, or thing as its own, it gives that person, place, or thing a new name and erases the old one. This new name also erases the history of that person, place, or thing, as if everything that came before never happened.

... the Romans created a wasteland and called it a peace. The entire empire is a mosaic of rape and murder and bastardy and forced labour, of which I am only one insignificant, dull-coloured fragment, off to the side, at the very edge. Insignificant, perhaps, but also representative. I, too, am a product of rape, murder, bastardy, and forced labour. I am the empire in a nutshell.

I live in a library now, surrounded by the greatest works of literature in the world, but I’m here to tell you, reader, literature is not the foundation of civilization. The foundation of civilization is hot water. Civilization is plumbing.

The truth is, I will never know, and neither will you. No touching final reunion will ever be performed in this play. Nothing will be revealed or redeemed or healed. The story will simply stop.

She plucks out three of them and hands them to Focaria, who grasps them in a pair of tongs, turns to the stove, and dips them into the pot of boiling water.

I am just another author no one will remember, and this is just another book that changes nothing.

The truth is, I will never know, and neither will you. No touching final reunion will ever be performed in this play. Nothing will be revealed or redeemed or healed. The story will simply stop. The players will run out of text. They will walk off the stage in mid-scene or even in the middle of a line. Suddenly the main character - don't call him the hero - will simply be gone, and you will never see him again. He will die alone at some undetermined time in the future, out of sight of history. He will leave the world the way he came into it - alone, unknown, unrecorded. Nobody, not even he, knows where he came from, and nobody will know when and where he goes.

Maybe Sparrow can't walk as far as Chicken, but he can walk well enough to fill his belly. And maybe he can't fly as quickly as Swift, but he can fly fast enough to escape the fox and keep from being enslaved by man. Remember Sparrow. He's not excellent at anything, but just good enough at everything.

And to hear Euterpe tell it, most of the world was full of Monsters. And in my imagination, I associated most of these monsters with men.

Nothing human is alien to me, says the playwright, but men were alien to me, because I didn't think they were people. It never entered my imagination that I might grow up to become one of them.

If I am Sparrow, and Sparrow is me, is it possible that someday he will watch from his cage as I fly straight up into the blue, getting smaller and smaller, shrinking from the outline of a bird to a pair of wings to a squiggle to a dot, until I vanish?

I have lifted the rock and seen the worms writhing underneath.

So perhaps you're not surprised by the difference between the two faces each man wears - not tragedy and comedy, like the dramatist's masks, but banker and panting beast, scribe and trembling lover, tradesman and rutting animal.

And there, for the first time, in the beating silence of the air, during an endless moment that lasts for ever and no time at all, I finally become my secret name, my true name. I become Sparrow.

... if he climbs just a little higher, he can escape, he can sail away and never come back. He can be Sparrow for ever. But of course, he's forgotten about the string, the one they tied around his leg. He's pulled it as taut as he can, higher and higher, further and further away from the city below, but he can never pull it far enough. He can never pull it until it breaks.

Then Sparrow can't rise any more. The string pulls tight, his wings flail and lose their lift, and he plummets, spiralling back down the way he came, past the moon, through the stars. [] Something's reeling him in, and he's falling, falling, falling [] straight back into the bruised and tender flesh of the boy, alone on the bed.

Instead, I have the freedom of the unremarkable, the powerless, and the insignificant.

A broken tool myself, I live in a house full of unread books and broken tools, the irreparable detritus of a dead empire. I am the last Roman, the emperor of junk.

This is the greatest mystery of all: even a bird can be a slave, but even in its cage, it sings.