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Quote by Thomm Quackenbush

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We Shadows

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Thomm Quackenbush

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“Speaking of shabby looks, we're going to have to give you a haircut soon. ...WHAT? These feathers are getting messy. LET ME UNDERSTAND THIS CORRECTLY. YOU WISH TO CUT MY MANE? Thunder tigers grow manes? OF COURSE! HOW ELSE WOULD YOU TELL MALES FROM FEMALES? This is a trick question, right? A MANE IS A SIGN A MALE ARASHITORA HAS REACHED MATURITY. Her laughter rang out in his mind. So it's going to be a few more decades growing, then? HMPH. I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW MOST FEMALES FIND IT FETCHING.”

HilariousBuruuManesYukiko
Book:Endsinger
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“I still sometimes encounter readers from the South who speak to me of the book's impact on them when it first fell into their hands in an Istanbul shantytown, a Greek port, the slums of Madrid, Damascus or Bombay. In these different places the book had an intimate address. It was no longer a sociological (or even political at the first degree) treatise but, rather, a little book of life stories, a sequence of lived moments — such as one finds in a family photo album. [From the Preface]”

LifeBookStoriesSouthIntimateReadersPlacesAddressPhoto Album
Book:A Seventh Man
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“Last night, the 27th of April, a small row boat received the carcass of the murderer; two men were in it, they carried the body off into the darkness, and out of that darkness it will never return…. In the darkness, like his great crime, may it remain forever, impalpable, invisible, nondescript, condemned to that worse than damnation,—annihilation. The river-bottom may ooze about it laden with great shot and drowning manacles. The earth may have opened to give it that silence and forgiveness which man will never give its memory. The fishes may swim around it, or the daisies grow white above it; but we shall never know. Mysterious, incomprehensible, unattainable, like the dim times through which we live and think upon as if we only dreamed them in perturbed fever, the assassin of a nation’s head rests somewhere in the elements, and that is all; but if the indignant seas or the profaned turf shall ever vomit his corpse from their recesses, and it receive humane or Christian burial from some who do not recognize it, let the last words those decaying lips ever uttered be carved above them with a dagger, to tell the history of a young and once promising life—USELESS! USELESS!”

ManhuntJames L Swanson
Author:George Alfred Townsend
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