Tortilla Flats Quotes

Thoughts are slow and deep and golden in the morning.

Time is more complex near the sea than in any other place, for in addition to the circling of the sun and the turning of the seasons, the waves beat out the passage of time on the rocks and the tides rise and fall as a great clepsydra.

It is a time of quiet joy, the sunny morning. When the glittery dew is on the mallow weeds, each leaf holds a jewel which is beautiful if not valuable. This is no time for hurry or for bustle. Thoughts are slow and deep and golden in the morning.

Ah, the prayers of the millions, how they must fight and destroy each other on their way to the throne of God.

What pillow can one have like a good conscience?

The story was gradually taking shape. Pilon liked it this way. It ruined a story to have it all come out quickly. The good story lay in half-told things which must be filled in out of the hearer's own experience.

It is astounding to find that the belly of every black and evil thing is as white as snow. And it is saddening to discover how the concealed parts of angels are leporous.

Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs maybe graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point anything can happen.

Ghosts could walk freely tonight, without fear of the disbelief of men; for this night was haunted, and it would be an insensitive man who did not know it.

Beans are a warm cloak against economic cold.

Thou knowest not what bitches women are," Danny said wisely. "I do know," said Pilon. "Thou knowest not." "I do know." "Liar.

The good story lay in half-told things which must be filled in out of the hearer’s own experience.

It is a fact verified and recorded in many histories that soul capable of the greatest good is also capable of the greatest evil. Who is there more impious than backsliding priest? Who more carnal than a recent virgin? This, however, may be a matter of appearance.

A dying organism is often observed to be capable of extraordinary endurance and strength. ... When any living organism is attacked, its whole function seems to aim toward reproduction.

The candle aimed its spark of light at heaven, like an artist who consumes himself to become divine.

Pilon complained, "It is not a good story. There are too many meanings and too many lessons in it. Some of those lessons are opposite. There is not a story to take into your head. It proves nothing." "I like it" said Pablo. "I like it because it hasn't any meaning you can see, and still it does seem to mean something, I can't tell what.

He was very rich; he bought eggs to throw at a Chinaman. And one of those eggs missed the Chinaman and hit a policeman. So, Danny was in jail.

Death is a personal matter, arousing sorrow, despair, fervor, or dry-hearted philosophy. Funerals, on the other hand, are social functions. Imagine going to a funeral without first polishing the automobile. Imagine standing at a graveside not dressed in your best dark suit and your best black shoes, polished delightfully. Imagine sending flowers to a funeral with no attached card to prove you had done the correct thing. In no social institution is the codified ritual of behavior more rigid than in funerals. Imagine the indignation if the minister altered his sermon or experimented with facial expression. Consider the shock if, at the funeral parlors, any chairs were used but those little folding yellow torture chairs with the hard seats. No, dying, a man may be loved, hated, mourned, missed; but once dead he becomes the chief ornament of a complicated and formal social celebration.

It is a time of quiet joy, the sunny morning. When the glittery dew is on the mallow weeds, each leaf holds a jewel which is beautiful if not valuable. This is no time for hurry or for bustle. Thoughts are slow and deep and golden in the morning. Pablo

Things that happen are of no importance. But from everything that happens, there is a lesson to be learned.

Benar. Kita tak pernah lagi menjumpai kebahagiaan yang setara dengan kebahagiaan masa kanak-kanak kita." Pablo mengangguk sedih.

It is worth while to be kind and generous,” he said. “Not only do such actions pile up a house of joy in Heaven; but there is, too, a quick reward here on earth. One feels a golden warmth glowing like a hot enchilada in one’s stomach.

Thy life is not thine own to govern, Danny, for it controls other lives. See how thy friends suffer! Spring to life, Danny, that thy friends may live again!

We must find him...Some harm will fall upon our friend in his craziness. We must search through the whole world until we find him.

It is astounding to find that the belly of every black and evil thing is as white as snow.

If two generous paths branch from the highroad of life and only one can be followed, who is to judge which is best?

They walked side by side along the dark beach toward Monterey, where the lights hung, necklace above necklace against the hill. The sand dunes crouched along the back of the beach like tired hounds, resting: and the waves gently practiced at striking, and hissed a little. The night was cold and aloof, and its warm life was withdrawn, so that it was full of bitter warnings to man that he is alone in the world, and alone among his fellows; that he has no comfort owing him from anywhere.

Here you play in the street, little chicken. Some day an automobile will run over you; and if it kills you, that will be the best thing that can happen. It may only break your leg or your wing. Then all of your life you will drag along in misery. Life is too hard for you, little bird.

had all thirteen families in Horse Mesa register to vote, and on election day, Jim drove me into Tortilla Flats. I kept the ballots in one hand and my pearl-handled revolver in the other, daring anyone to try to hijack democracy by stealing the twenty-six votes I had been entrusted with. “Hold on, everyone!” I declared when I arrived. “The votes from Horse Mesa are here, and I’m proud to announce we had one hundred percent turnout.

Thus do the gods speak with tiny causes.

The stars of the Milky Way galaxy trace a big, flat circle. With a diameter-to-thickness ratio of one hundred to one, our galaxy is flatter than the flattest flapjacks ever made. In fact, its proportions are better represented by a crepé or a tortilla.

In the summer when the hands of a clock point to seven, it is a nice time to get up, but in winter the same time is of no value whatever. How much better is the sun!

No, dying, a man may be loved, hated, mourned, missed; but once dead he becomes the chief ornament of a complicated and formal social celebration.

Here we sit,” he began at last. “—broken-hearted,” Pilon added rhythmically.

Now it is over,” he said sadly. “Now the great times are done. Thy friends will mourn, but nothing will come of their mourning.” Danny

Marihuana

It is astounding to find that the belly of every black and evil thing is white as snow. And it is saddening to discover how the concealed parts of angels are leprous.

It was a glorious game. Theft robbed of the stigma of theft, crime altruistically committed - what is more gratifying?

Spiritually the jugs may be graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of old and bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduation stops here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point on, anything can happen.

The story was gradually taking shape. Pion liked it this way. It mined a story to have it all come out quickly. The good story lay in half-told things which must be filled in out of the hearer's own experience.

It was Jesus Maria's practice to go to the post office every day, first because there he could see many people whom he knew, and second because on that windy post office corner he could look at the legs of a great many girls.

At this very moment Pablo Sanchez happened to be sitting in the ditch at the side of the road, wishing he had a cigarette and a glass of wine. Ah, the prayers of the millions, how they must fight and destroy each other on their way to the throne of God. Pablo

Now Pilon knew it for a perfect night. A high fog covered the sky, and behind it, the moon shone so so that the forest was filled with a gauze-like light. There was none of the sharp outline we think of as reality. The tree trunks were not black columns of wood, but soft and unsubstantial shadows. The patches of brush were formless and shifting in the queer light. Ghosts could walk freely to-night, without fear of the disbelif of men; for this night was haunted, and it would be an insensitive man who did not know it.

Teresina went often to confession. She was the despair of Father Ramon. Indeed he had seen that while her knees, her hands, and her lips did penance for an old sin, her modest and provocative eyes, flashing under drawn lashes, laid the foundation for a new one. During

They did not awaken quickly, nor fling about nor shock their systems with any sudden movement. No, they arose from slumber as gently as a soap bubble floats out from its pipe. Down into the gulch they trudged, still only half awake. Gradually their wills coagulated. They built a fire and boiled some tea and drank it from the fruit jars, and at last they settled in the sun on the front porch. The flaming flies made halos about their heads. Life took shape about them, the shape of yesterday and of tomorrow. Discussion began slowly, for each man treasured the little sleep he still possessed. From this time until well after noon, intellectual comradeship came into being. Then roofs were lifted, houses peered into, motives inspected, adventures recounted. Ordinarily their thoughts went first to Cornelia Ruiz, for it was a rare day and night during which Cornelia had not some curious and interesting adventure. And it was an unusual adventure from which no moral lesson could be drawn. The sun glistened in the pine needles. The earth smelled dry and good. The rose of Castile perfumed the world with its flowers. This was one of the best of times for the friends of Danny. The struggle for existence was remote. They sat in judgment on their fellows, judging not for morals, but for interest. Anyone having a good thing to tell saved it for recounting at this time. The big brown butterflies came to the rose and sat on the flowers and waved their wings slowly, as though they pumped honey out by wing power.

Spiritually the jugs may be graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing. A thumb, every other song each one knows. The graduations stop here, for the trail splits and there is no certainty. From this point on anything can happen. But

The stars of the Milky Way galaxy trace a big, flat circle. With a diameter-to-thickness ratio of one thousand to one, our galaxy is flatter than the flattest flapjacks ever made. In fact, its proportions are better represented by a crépe or a tortilla. No, the Milky Way’s disk is not a sphere, but it probably began as one. We can understand the flatness by assuming the galaxy was once a big, spherical, slowly rotating ball of collapsing gas. During the collapse, the ball spun faster and faster, just as spinning figure skaters do when they draw their arms inward to increase their rotation rate. The galaxy naturally flattened pole-to-pole while the increasing centrifugal forces in the middle prevented collapse at midplane. Yes, if the Pillsbury Doughboy were a figure skater, then fast spins would be a high-risk activity. Any stars that happened to be formed within the Milky Way cloud before the collapse maintained large, plunging orbits. The remaining gas, which easily sticks to itself, like a mid-air collision of two hot marshmallows, got pinned at the mid-plane and is responsible for all subsequent generations of stars, including the Sun. The current Milky Way, which is neither collapsing nor expanding, is a gravitationally mature system where one can think of the orbiting stars above and below the disk as the skeletal remains of the original spherical gas cloud. This general flattening of objects that rotate is why Earth’s pole-to-pole diameter is smaller than its diameter at the equator. Not by much: three-tenths of one percent—about twenty-six miles. But Earth is small, mostly solid, and doesn’t rotate all that fast. At twenty-four hours per day, Earth carries anything on its equator at a mere 1,000 miles per hour. Consider the jumbo, fast-rotating, gaseous planet Saturn. Completing a day in just ten and a half hours, its equator revolves at 22,000 miles per hour and its pole-to-pole dimension is a full ten percent flatter than its middle, a difference noticeable even through a small amateur telescope. Flattened spheres are more generally called oblate spheroids, while spheres that are elongated pole-to-pole are called prolate. In everyday life, hamburgers and hot dogs make excellent (although somewhat extreme) examples of each shape. I don’t know about you, but the planet Saturn pops into my mind with every bite of a hamburger I take.

But the loneliness was still on Danny and demanded an outlet. 'Here we sit,' he began at last. ' - broken-hearted,' Pilon added rhythmically. 'No, this is not a poem,' Danny said. 'Here we sit, homeless. We gave our lives for our country, and now we have no roof over our head.' 'We never did have,' Pilon added helpfully. Danny drank dreamily until Pilon touched his elbow and took the bottle. 'That reminds me,' Danny said, 'of a story of a man who owned two whore-houses--' His mouth dropped open. 'Pilon! my little fat duck of a baby friend. I had forgotten! I am an heir! I own two houses.' 'Whore-houses?' Pilon asked hopefully. 'Thou art a drunken liar,' he continued. 'No, Pilon. I tell the truth. The viejo died. I am the heir. I, the favourite grandson.' 'Thou art the only grandson,' said the realist Pilon.

He shrugged. “You know, looks after her house, does repair work, yard work, cleans the gutters, man stuff.” I made a face. “Man stuff?” Hank gave me a flat look. “Don’t give me that. This ain’t Los Angeles or Boston. This here is Green Valley, Tennessee. Men do men’s work.” “Oh, like run strip clubs?” I batted my eyelashes at him. He snorted. “No. That’s just workwork. I’m not saying men don’t clean ovens around here, and I’m not saying women don’t mow lawns. I’m just saying, more often than not, a man has his place and a woman has hers, everybody pulls their weight and no one minds it much. We all do our chores and help each other. So stop with the cosmopolitan, enlightened judgmental shit.” Hank was easy to tease when it came to his roots. If I wanted to get him worked up, I’d call him a yokel. I didn’t think of Hank as a yokel. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what a yokel was... I held my hands up. “Fine, okay, whatever. I won’t pick on your precious cultural norms, your white privilege, or your fried chicken.” “Good.” He nodded once. “Then I won’t pick on your telenovelas or tortillas.” “That’s right, you won’t.

Душа, способная на величайшее добро, способна также и на величайшее зло

Они достигли следующего деления, и Пилон вспомнил, как счастлив он был в детстве. – Никаких забот, Пабло. Я был безгрешен. Я был очень счастлив. – С тех пор мы ни разу не были счастливы, — грустно согласился Пабло.

О, как должны молитвы миллионов мешать друг другу и уничтожать друг друга на пути к престолу божьему!

He had thought over the ruin of his status as a man with a house to rent; and, all this clutter of necessary and decent emotion having been satisfied and swept away, he had finally slipped into his true emotion, one of relief that at least one of his burdens was removed. “If it were still there, I would be covetous of the rent,” he thought. “My friends have been cool toward me because they owed me money. Now we can be free and happy again.

Pilon was a lover of beauty and a mystic. He raised his face into the sky and his soul arose out of him into the sun’s afterglow.

is a fact verified and recorded in many histories that the soul capable of the greatest good is also capable of the greatest evil.

If two generous paths branch from the high road of life and only one can be followed, who is to judge which is best?

Beans are a roof over your stomach. Beans are a warm cloak against economic cold. Only one thing could threaten the lives and happiness of the family of the Señora Teresina Cortez; that was a failure of the bean crop.

In a little while Danny assaulted her virtue with true gallantry and vigor.

Big Joe rarely told a lie. His mind didn’t work quickly enough.

Ur Ah, the prayers of the millions, how they must fight and destroy each other on their way to the throne of God.

everything in the world must have design or the human mind rejects it. But in addition it must have purpose or the human conscience shies away from it.

Week One Shopping List Vegetables 2 red bell peppers 3 jalapeño peppers 2 medium cucumbers 1 small head green cabbage 7 medium carrots 1 head cauliflower 4-inch piece fresh ginger 4 butter or Bibb lettuce leaves 1 pound fingerling potatoes 5 cups fresh spinach 6 medium tomatoes 3 cups cherry tomatoes 4 medium zucchini Herbs 1 bunch fresh basil 1 bunch fresh cilantro 1 bunch fresh flat-leaf parsley Fruit 1 large apple 5 bananas 2 pints fresh blueberries (or 1 pound frozen) 3 lemons 2 limes Meat and Fish 1 whole chicken, about 4 pounds 4 pork chops 1½ pounds flank steak 1 pound peeled and deveined shrimp Dairy 6 ounces whipped cream cheese 26 eggs 8 ounces feta cheese 14 ounces goat cheese 1 pint plain Greek yogurt 6 ounces sour cream Miscellaneous 3¼ cups plus 2 tablespoons unsweetened almond milk 16 corn tortillas 3 cups salsa verde or tomatillo salsa 2 (12-ounce) packages silken tofu 4 whole-wheat tortillas 2 whole-wheat pita breads 1 loaf of whole-grain bread

Dois garrafões é um bocado de vinho, mesmo para dois paisanos. Espiritualmente, o garrafão pode ser graduado assim: logo abaixo do gargalo do primeiro, conversa séria e concentrada. Cinco centímetros mais abaixo, suaves recordações tristes.  Sete centímetros mais, lembranças de velhos e agradáveis amores. Dois centímetros, pensamentos de amores antigos e amargos. Fundo do primeiro garrafão, tristeza geral esparsa. Abaixo do gargalo do segundo garrafão, desalento pecaminoso sinistro.  Dois dedos abaixo, canto de morte ou ansiedade. Um polegar, qualquer canção que cada um conheça. A gradação para aqui, pois a trilha se divide e não há certeza. Deste ponto em diante, tudo pode acontecer.

Hayır, ölmekte olan kişiyi sevebilir, nefret edebilir, arkasından ağlayabilir, özleyebilirsiniz; ama öldüğü zaman o artık karmaşık ve resmi bir sosyal kutlamanın ana malzemesi, başlıca süs olup çıkar.

Вечер приближался так же незаметно, как приближается старость к счастливому человеку.

This is the story of Danny and of Danny’s friends and of Danny’s house.

Když se na Pláni Tortille zmíníte o Dannyho domě, nemyslíte tím dřevěné stavení pokryté flekanci zastaralé omítky a zarostlé letitou kastilskou ruží. Když hovoříte o Dannyho domě, každý hned pochopí, že máte na mysli skupinu lidí, z nichž vyzařovala vlídnost, radost, láska k lidem a nakonec i mystický zármutek.

He leaned it against the fence and covered it with a sack; then he buried his ax in the ground, for, as every one knows, it makes steel much harder to be buried.

Old men should not run after babies. They should sit in the sun.

and used the dough to make wheat tortillas, which Biba labelled “flat rotis no self-respecting Punjabi would ever make.

It is true that ordinarily her voice was shrill, her face hard and sharp as a hatchet, her figure lumpy, and her intentions selfish.

It is astounding to find that the belly of every black and evil thing is as white as snow. And it is saddening to discover how the concealed parts of angels are leprous.

He raised his face into the sky and his soul arose out of him into the sun’s afterglow.

enchilada in one’s stomach

The afternoon came down as imperceptibly as age comes to a happy man.

Two gallons is a great deal of wine, even for two paisanos. Spiritually the jugs may be graduated thus: Just below the shoulder of the first bottle, serious and concentrated conversation. Two inches farther down, sweetly sad memory. Three inches more, thoughts of old and satisfactory loves. An inch, thoughts of old and bitter loves. Bottom of the first jug, general and undirected sadness. Shoulder of the second jug, black, unholy despondency. Two fingers down, a song of death or longing.

grappa

effete

In April 1934, by the time Steinbeck thanked Needham for his prescient review in the Los Angeles Times, he was at the threshold of becoming not only the accomplished writer he had started out to be seven years earlier, but a popular one as well. If the remainder of Steinbeck’s career after Tortilla Flat can be seen as an anguished dance with fame, he had here arrived at a transitional moment when his sense of himself as a writer was still driven by the private pleasures of his art. “A couple of years ago,” he confessed in August 1933, “I realized that I was not the material of which great artists are made and that I was rather glad I wasn’t. And since then I have been happier simply to do the work and to take the reward at the end of every day that is given for a day of honest work.” His candor still strikes a resonant chord. To a God Unknown is not considered a great novel, though it is a quirky, memorable one. But because John Steinbeck may have learned more about crafting long fiction from it than from anything else he worked on during that period, this book laid the foundation for later artistic greatness.

Within a year Ballou, whom Steinbeck would eventually consider a “fine” and “sensitive” man, but too gentlemanly to fight New York publishing battles, remaindered both The Pastures of Heaven and To a God Unknown and rejected Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat manuscript as unsuitable. For a while Steinbeck was back in a familiar situation: writing under stressful circumstances (both his parents were seriously ill) and trying not to worry about publication. Arguably, the time he and Carol spent caring first for his mother, then for his father, probably did as much as anything else to end Steinbeck’s interest in heroic, larger-than-life literary characters. Frequent interruptions to clean his mother’s bed-pans and wash loads of soiled sheets, and later to witness his father’s decline into senility, refocused Steinbeck’s attention on common life, on the realm of “clerks” who, when they broke through reality at all, broke into a far more limited, even dubious, kind of heroism than Henry Morgan’s or Joseph Wayne’s. Steinbeck had already struck that chord in Pastures, but it would be with In Dubious Battle and with Of Mice and Men that a gritty style and an uncompromising vision of beleaguered humans caught in overwhelming circumstances would carry his “new conception of realities” to yet another stage of achievement.