Fiction
Quotes - Gossip is like thread wound over a spindle of truth, changing its
shape
“It
does little good to regret a choice. So often people say, “If only I had
known,” implying they would’ve acted differently in a given situation. It is
true that desires of the moment can blind one’s sight of the future. Revenge is
not as sweet as the adage claims. Yet who could pass a chance to taste it? And
if the chance were allowed to slip by, would the fool regret his lack of
action? ”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“Gossip
is like thread wound over a spindle of truth, changing its shape.”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“If
one does not react to gossip, the informer hushes more quickly.”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“There
is no doubt fiction makes a better job of the truth.”
―
Doris May Lessing, Under My Skin: Volume One of My Autobiography, to 1949
“This
evening I spied her in the back orchard. I decided to sacrifice one of my
better old shirts and carried it out to her. The weather’s been warm of late.
Buds on the apple trees are ready to burst. Usually by this time of the year,
at that time of day, the back orchard is full of screaming children. Damut’s
boys were the only two. They were on the terrace below her, running through the
slanted sunlight, chasing each other around tree trunks. She stood above them,
like a merlin watching rabbits play.”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“You
know how sometimes you tell yourself that you have a choice, but really you
don't have a choice? Just because there are alternatives doesn't mean they
apply to you.”
―
Rick Yancey, The 5th Wave
“This
world would be a pleasant place if people didn’t inhabit it.”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“Life
is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We
would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of
existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this
great city, gently remove the roofs, and and peep in at the queer things which
are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the
wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the
most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and
foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable.”
―
Arthur Conan Doyle, The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
“Snake
Street is an area I should avoid. Yet that night I was drawn there as surely as
if I had an appointment.
The
Snake House is shabby on the outside to hide the wealth within. Everyone knows
of the wealth, but facades, like the park’s wall, must be maintained. A lantern
hung from the porch eaves. A sign, written in Utte, read ‘Kinship of the
Serpent’. I stared at that sign, at that porch, at the door with its twisted
handle, and wondered what the people inside would do if I entered. Would they
remember me? Greet me as Kin? Or drive me out and curse me for faking my
death? Worse, would they expect me to
redon the life I’ve shed? Staring at that sign, I pissed in the street like the
Mearan savage I’ve become.
As I
started to leave, I saw a woman sitting in the gutter. Her lamp attracted me. A
memsa’s lamp, three tiny flames to signify the Holy Trinity of Faith, Purity,
and Knowledge. The woman wasn’t a memsa.
Her young face was bruised and a gash on her throat had bloodied her clothing.
Had she not been calmly assessing me, I would have believed the wound to be
mortal. I offered her a copper.
She
refused, “I take naught for naught,” and began to remove trinkets from a cloth
bag, displaying them for sale.
Her
Utte accent had been enough to earn my coin. But to assuage her pride I
commented on each of her worthless treasures, fighting the urge to speak Utte.
(I spoke Universal with the accent of an upper class Mearan though I wondered
if she had seen me wetting the cobblestones like a shameless commoner.) After
she had arranged her wares, she looked up at me. “What do you desire, O Noble
Born?”
I
laughed, certain now that she had seen my act in front of the Snake House and,
letting my accent match the coarseness of my dress, I again offered the copper.
“Nay, Noble One. You must choose.” She lifted
a strand of red beads. “These to adorn your lady’s bosom?”
I shook my head. I wanted her lamp.
But to steal the light from this woman ... I couldn’t ask for it. She reached
into her bag once more and withdrew a book, leather-bound, the pages gilded on
the edges. “Be this worthy of desire, Noble Born?”
I stood stunned a moment, then touched the
crescent stamped into the leather and asked if she’d stolen the book. She
denied it. I’ve had the Training; she spoke truth. Yet how could she have come
by a book bearing the Royal Seal of the Haesyl Line? I opened it. The pages
were blank.
“Take
it,” she urged. “Record your deeds for study. Lo, the steps of your life mark
the journey of your soul.”
I told her I couldn’t afford the book, but
she smiled as if poverty were a blessing and said, “The price be one copper.
Tis a wee price for salvation, Noble One.”
So I bought this journal. I hide it under my
mattress. When I lie awake at night, I feel the journal beneath my back and
think of the woman who sold it to me. Damn her. She plagues my soul. I promised
to return the next night, but I didn’t. I promised to record my deeds. But I
can’t. The price is too high.”
― K.
Ritz, Sheever's Journal, Diary of a Poison Master
“Peeta
opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows, then frowns
slightly. "They're very sweet."
"Yes
they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you've ever had
them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth.
"No,"
he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?"
"Well,
you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say.
Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go.
"They're
sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His
eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose
hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit
the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he
fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgiveable.
I
sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and
satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't
lie, Peeta?" I say, even though he can't hear me.”
―
Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games
“I
can't go on, I'll go on.”
―
Samuel Beckett, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On: A Samuel Beckett Reader
“Art
never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it
is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand
it.”
―
Flannery O'Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose
