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Quote by Nellotie Porter Chastain

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Persimmon Capital Murders

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Nellotie Porter Chastain

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“Although she didn't have Dina's magical ability to imbibe food and drink with magical comfort, she still loved the process of baking. Measuring out the dry and wet ingredients, pouring it all in the baking tray, and crouching by the oven every now and again to make sure it was rising as expected. While she waited for the pie to bake, Rosemary noted a few ideas down for the early scenes of the script adaptation of Julia, which was coming along nicely. The room was filled with the scent of nutmeg, cinnamon, and caramelized pecans that she would use as a topping, as well as the buttery, fruity scent of the pie itself.”

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“If there is a small silver lining to my continued unemployment, it is that I have increased my hours at the farmers' market, where I am surrounded by people who love growing and making food as much as I love eating, reading, and writing about it. Every market brings with it a new sensory adventure: the toothsome crunch of Rick's millet muffins, the brazen tang of his sourdough, the sharp and herbaceous scent of his cheddar dill scones. Instead of trying to force a food connection like I did at The Morning Show, I now live and breathe an agricultural smorgasbord on an almost daily basis, poring over luscious apples and lumpy, bumpy squash and fat loaves of buttery brioche. In a strange way, despite the meager pay, I finally feel as if I'm where I belong.”

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Book:A Second Bite at the Apple
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“...you must remember that the political development of the masses proceeds not in a direct line, but in a complicated curve. And is not this, after all, the essential movement of every material process? Objective conditions were powerfully impelling the workers, soldiers and peasants toward the banners of the Bolsheviks, but the masses were entering upon this path in a state of struggle with their own past, with their yesterday’s beliefs, and partly also with their beliefs of today. At a difficult turn, at a moment of failure and disappointment, the old prejudices not yet burnt out would flare up, and the enemy would naturally seize upon these as upon an anchor of salvation.”

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Book:History of the Russian Revolution
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“Había una vez un rey que, como suele suceder, creía que lo mejor del mundo era ser poderoso. Y él, como realmente lo era, quería serlo cada vez más. Seguro en todo, su única preocupación era Victoria, su hija. Era hermosa, inteligente y bondadosa, pero, según él, tenía un grave defecto: amaba más a los amigos, la danza, los libros, los pájaros y las flores que el trono, los palacios, los títulos de nobleza y la fortuna. -Algún día tendrás que gobernar, hija, y verás que de nada te servirán los amigos, la danza, los libros, los pájaros y las flores... -Las flores crecen sin que nadie mande que lo hagan -respondía Victoria-, los pájaros vuelan sin que nadie les ordene qué cielo atravesar o en qué rama posarse...”

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Book:Donkey Skin
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“My life is very monotonous," the fox said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music, out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat...”

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“A norma d'Universo le grandi stragi non son neppure un brivido, sebbene l'Universo della umana memoria protesti. E s'erano affidati alla carta, al legno, alle pietre, queste materie più salde di un corpo umano, perché l'umanità civile continuasse. Ma ecco scritture, intagli, colori, violentemente sbaragliati e inceneriti, mentre l'ingegnoso che li concepì è ridotto un meschino senza volto, scacciato dal sasso dove univa i piedi tremando, all'orlo di una voragine.”

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Book:Artemisia
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