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A Quotes

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All A Quotes

“At Corral Lake I sat by the fire, studying maps of the Cascades. I soon reached a conclusion that holds good throughout most of America. Apart from Alaska, there are few places left where one can get more than ten miles from any road. This country between Adams on the south and Rainier on the north was largely roadless when I first knew it. If we kept to the high country, we could hike for weeks without reaching a road of any kind. Now there are jeep roads and main highways over which the tourists throng. Few, if any, ever come on foot. Recreation is where the automobile can go. The car is our leash that keeps us confined to a small radius.”

“At critical moments in the life of individuals and of societies, it is not necessarily the facts that are needed as much as a profound narrative that makes sense of life’s conflicts and misunderstandings. When all seems to be falling apart and becoming less rational and more chaotic, it is usually a different story that is needed to make things whole again. Mythic imagination can break the spell of time and open us to a level of life that remains timeless. Myth is not about what happened in past times; myth is about what happens to people all of the time.”

“At Crowley Control Systems in Southfield, the message we received from Clark Crowley, delivered in an amble around the office every month or so, was: Keep up the fine work folks! At General Dexterity in San Francisco, the message we received from Andrei, delivered in a quantitative business update every Tuesday and Thursday, was: We are on a mission to remake the conditions of human labor, so push harder, all of you. I began to wonder if, in fact, I knew how to push hard. In Michigan, my family all had families and extremely serious hobbies. Here, the wraiths were stripped bare: human-shaped generators of CAD and code.”

“At Dachau. We had a wonderful pool for the garrison children. It was even heated. But that was before we were transferred. Dachau was ever so much nicer than Auschwitz. But then, it was in the Reich. See my trophies there. The one in the middle, the big one. That was presented to me by the Reich Youth Leader himself, Baldur von Schirach. Let me show you my scrapbook.”

“At dawn, after my death hours before, The sunlight will spread at seven o’clock as usual On these trees which I know. Greenness will burst, dark green shadows yield To the cruel-benign, indifferent sun. Indifferent will stand the trees in my own garden, Unweeping for me on the morning of my death. Same as ever, roots athirst, The trees will rest in breezeless dawn, Blind and uncaring, The trees that I knew, That I tended.”

“At dawn, King Lír rose up and saddled his horse. Before he mounted, he said to Schmendrick and Molly, “I would like it if you came to see me one day.” They assured him that they would, but still he lingered with them, twisting the dangling reins about his fingers. “I dreamed about her last night!” he said. Molly cried, “So did I!” and Schmendrick opened his mouth, and then closed it again. King Lír said hoarsely, “By our friendship, I beg you—tell me what she said to you.” His hands gripped one hand of each of theirs, and his clutch was cold and painful. Schmendrick gave him a weak smile. “My lord, I so rarely remember my dreams. It seems to me that we spoke solemnly of silly things, as one does—grave nonsense, empty and evanescent—” The king let go of his hand and turned his half-mad gaze on Molly Grue. “I’ll never tell,” she said, a little frightened, but flushing oddly. “I remember, but I’ll never tell anyone, if I die for it—not even you, my lord.” She was not looking at him as she spoke, but at Schmendrick. King Lír let her hand fall as well, and he swung himself into the saddle so fiercely that his horse reared up across the sunrise, bugling like a stag. But Lír kept his seat and glared down at Molly and Schmendrick with a face so grim and scored and sunken that he might well have been king as long as Haggard before him. “She said nothing to me,” he whispered. “Do you understand? She said nothing to me, nothing at all.” Then his face softened, as even King Haggard’s face had gone a little gentle when he watched the unicorns in the sea. For that moment he was again the young prince who had liked to sit with Molly in the scullery. He said, “She looked at me. In my dream, she looked at me and never spoke.” He rode away without good-bye, and they watched after him until the hills hid him: a straight, sad horseman, going home to be king.”

“At day’s end, when released from their chores, they fastened earmuffs under their chins, stole their mothers’ scarves to wind around their necks, and boarded wheeled vehicles they had fashioned from crates and boxes. Without engines or wings, the contraptions were earthbound, but, as they bumped their way downhill, the summer air breezed past the boys’ sky-angled faces, and if they dared close their eyes, they swore the crates took flight.”

“At daybreak, my face still turned to the wall, and before I had seen above the big window-curtains what shade of colour the first streaks of light assumed, I could already tell what the weather was like. The first sounds from the street had told me, according to whether they came to my ears deadened and distorted by the moisture of the atmosphere or quivering like arrows in the resonant, empty expanses of a spacious, frosty, pure morning; as soon as I heard the rumble of the first tramcar, I could tell whether it was sodden with rain or setting forth into the blue.”

“At det var synddag betød også, at Satinas far var hjemme. Og det betød, at hele huset emmede af sådan et raseri, at man næsten kunne lugte det. Sortehorn befandt sig ude på badeværelset, og hans mørke røst hørtes som en konstant buldren: ≫Først skal trapperne vaskes, så skal der støvsuges, så skal lokummet renses og så og så og så… Man skulle jo kraftedeme tro, at jeg var død og kommet i Helvede. Men næ nej, jeg er såmænd bare gift. Ja, gift. Det er sgu lige, hvad det er. Ren, ufortyndet gift≪”

“At difficult times of my life, books have been an incredible comfort. When I was 12, I changed schools and my parents split up. It was then that I became addicted to reading. A great writer can attach themselves to your mind and heart, and you feel you understand the world better. As long as you have the capacity to read, you needn't be alone any more. I remember thinking as a child, "If I could give one person the comfort I keep getting from books, then I want to write."”