A man true to his word.
Interesting Passages You've Read
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Winston Churchill on lead paint? And depression to his wife Clementine. I have a fat collection of their letters. 
This is a pretty well-known excerpt from Don DeLillo's "White Noise" about the "most photographed barn in America" that seems to describe modern life in 2025 even better than it did 40 years ago in 1985.
We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
We drove 22 miles into the country around Farmington. There were meadows and apple orchards. White fences trailed through the rolling fields. Soon the sign started appearing. THE MOST PHOTOGRAPHED BARN IN AMERICA. We counted five signs before we reached the site. There were 40 cars and a tour bus in the makeshift lot. We walked along a cowpath to the slightly elevated spot set aside for viewing and photographing. All the people had cameras; some had tripods, telephoto lenses, filter kits. A man in a booth sold postcards and slides -- pictures of the barn taken from the elevated spot. We stood near a grove of trees and watched the photographers. Murray maintained a prolonged silence, occasionally scrawling some notes in a little book.
"No one sees the barn," he said finally.
A long silence followed.
"Once you've seen the signs about the barn, it becomes impossible to see the barn."
He fell silent once more. People with cameras left the elevated site, replaced by others.
We're not here to capture an image, we're here to maintain one. Every photograph reinforces the aura. Can you feel it, Jack? An accumulation of nameless energies."
There was an extended silence. The man in the booth sold postcards and slides.
"Being here is a kind of spiritual surrender. We see only what the others see. The thousands who were here in the past, those who will come in the future. We've agreed to be part of a collective perception. It literally colors our vision. A religious experience in a way, like all tourism."
Another silence ensued.
"They are taking pictures of taking pictures," he said.”
edvard
Friend of Leo's
From Jesse Bernstein's poem "Party Balloon":
"... I demonstrate this in a cloudy green tank the length of a whole childhood, poisoned fish, I throw everything in there, this balloon. Worlds will come out, bigger than this world. Explode through the drapery and glass, growling in the naked street, shaped like a foot, like a sharp knife, like an ugly doll full of cotton. Whole worlds like those things covered with life we don't see.
As a partly grown man I don't understand my own thinking. It just goes through my head like a saw blade, a gun at a party. Everyone scatters, dropping everything all the time. There is a little thing left here and there and I find it and I feed it to the fish. When I die, when I am fully grown, DUMP IT ALL IN THE LOS ANGELES RIVER WITH THE CARS AND THE SKULLS!"
I don't know why that particular passage had such impact on 20-something me, but my heart would skip beats right there, almost every time.
"... I demonstrate this in a cloudy green tank the length of a whole childhood, poisoned fish, I throw everything in there, this balloon. Worlds will come out, bigger than this world. Explode through the drapery and glass, growling in the naked street, shaped like a foot, like a sharp knife, like an ugly doll full of cotton. Whole worlds like those things covered with life we don't see.
As a partly grown man I don't understand my own thinking. It just goes through my head like a saw blade, a gun at a party. Everyone scatters, dropping everything all the time. There is a little thing left here and there and I find it and I feed it to the fish. When I die, when I am fully grown, DUMP IT ALL IN THE LOS ANGELES RIVER WITH THE CARS AND THE SKULLS!"
I don't know why that particular passage had such impact on 20-something me, but my heart would skip beats right there, almost every time.
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edvard
Friend of Leo's
The day I read this line was the day my perspective on comedy and humor forever changed:
"The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't."
--Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
"The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't."
--Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
There is no perfection, only life.
- Milan Kundera
- Milan Kundera
One of the most perfect sentences in English literature, and exactly what I came here to post.
I love this forum.
Vibroluxer
Poster Extraordinaire
Anne Sexton - I Remember
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
By the first of August
the invisible beetles began
to snore and the grass was
as tough as hemp and was
no color—no more than
the sand was a color and
we had worn our bare feet
bare since the twentieth
of June and there were times
we forgot to wind up your
alarm clock and some nights
we took our gin warm and neat
from old jelly glasses while
the sun blew out of sight
like a red picture hat and
one day I tied my hair back
with a ribbon and you said
that I looked almost like
a puritan lady and what
I remember best is that
the door to your room was
the door to mine.
Fiesta Red
Doctor of Teleocity
"Thus began our longest journey together”
—Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
THX1139
Tele-Holic
I have told myself a thousand times not to be shocked, but every time I am shocked again by what people will do to have fun, for reasons they cannot explain.
Isaac Bashevis Singer
Isaac Bashevis Singer
“You think because he doesn’t love you that you are worthless. You think that because he doesn’t want you anymore that he is right — that his judgement and opinion of you are correct. If he throws you out, then you are garbage. You think he belongs to you because you want to belong to him. Don’t. It’s a bad word, ‘belong.’ Especially when you put it with somebody you love. Love shouldn’t be like that. Did you ever see the way the clouds love a mountain? They circle all around it; sometimes you can’t even see the mountain for the clouds. But you know what? You go up top and what do you see? His head. The clouds never cover the head. His head pokes through, because the clouds let him; they don’t wrap him up. They let him keep his head up high, free, with nothing to hide him or bind him. You can’t own a human being."
Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon, 1977
Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon, 1977
tonepoet333
Tele-Holic
Carl Sandburg from his poem "Prairie"
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
Knows3Chords
Poster Extraordinaire
If poetry is okay, perhaps a little Kipling?
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
allpoetry.com
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling
Comments & analysis: As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race, / I Make my proper prostrations t
allpoetry.com tonepoet333
Tele-Holic
At the age of 20, reading Thoreau's "Walden" blew me away with passages like:
and
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.”
and
“In the long run men only hit what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high.”
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
Vibroluxer
Poster Extraordinaire
Baxter Black - My Kinda Truck
I like a pickup that looks like a truck
And not like a tropical fish.
Or a two-ton poodle with running lights
Or a mutant frog on a leash.
Give me one tough as a cast iron skillet
With a bumper that’s extra large
And a hood that weighs over eighty-five pounds
And looks like the prow on a barge.
I like style but since when should a truck
Be touted for comfort and ride.
Power windows on pickups? Reminds me of jeans
With a zipper that zips up the side.
They should soak up the dents of everyday life
Like a boxer losin’ his teeth.
And I like a truck, when you lift up the hood
You can see the ground underneath!
Pickups are kinda like welding gloves.
The pock marks are part of the deal.
Not pretty, just built to get the job done.
Like the dummy behind the wheel.
Don’t get me wrong, I know beauty’s skin deep
And ugly is the eye,
But to find out if your truck is my kinda truck
Here’s a test that you can apply:
If you have a small wreck in the parking lot
By backin’ a little too far,
Your only worry is how big a mess
You made of the other guy’s car!
I like a pickup that looks like a truck
And not like a tropical fish.
Or a two-ton poodle with running lights
Or a mutant frog on a leash.
Give me one tough as a cast iron skillet
With a bumper that’s extra large
And a hood that weighs over eighty-five pounds
And looks like the prow on a barge.
I like style but since when should a truck
Be touted for comfort and ride.
Power windows on pickups? Reminds me of jeans
With a zipper that zips up the side.
They should soak up the dents of everyday life
Like a boxer losin’ his teeth.
And I like a truck, when you lift up the hood
You can see the ground underneath!
Pickups are kinda like welding gloves.
The pock marks are part of the deal.
Not pretty, just built to get the job done.
Like the dummy behind the wheel.
Don’t get me wrong, I know beauty’s skin deep
And ugly is the eye,
But to find out if your truck is my kinda truck
Here’s a test that you can apply:
If you have a small wreck in the parking lot
By backin’ a little too far,
Your only worry is how big a mess
You made of the other guy’s car!
edvard
Friend of Leo's
"All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed."
And if you know, you know:
"Silflay hraka, u embleer rah!"
- Richard Adams, Watership Down
And if you know, you know:
"Silflay hraka, u embleer rah!"
- Richard Adams, Watership Down
The final chapter from Jack London's White Fang hits me so hard, it's beautiful prose, almost prose poetry. And when you know White Fang's back story, it's hard to hold back the tears:
CHAPTER XVII — THE TRAIL OF THE POSSUM-WOLF
White Fang took his place unassumingly outside Judge Scott’s house in the Sierra. He sought no formal entrance, but lay down in his habitual corner by the stables. Then he moved a few feet closer to the house, but he never entered. “No mere dog,” Judge Scott said from the kitchen door one morning, “could have acted so.” He watched White Fang ponder his household: the garden, the stables, the bench on the porch, the ever-moving house‑wife, and the master, as he came and went.
From time to time, White Fang came a little nearer, and more than once Mrs. Scott dropped scraps for him from the kitchen window. But always, when the master approached, White Fang slunk farther off, waiting until the man passed on his way in or out.
He was patient and content. Day by day he moved a few inches nearer until one morning he leisurely strolled through the open door, entered the house, and lay down at Judge Scott’s feet. The judge surveyed him quietly. “The dog shows sense,” he said, and patted him almost affectionately.
White Fang could have risen and gone, but he stayed, submitting himself to domesticity. Mrs. Scott spoke to him kindly, though at first White Fang did not respond. Gradually he lifted his head at her voice, while she spoke softly to him, calling him the “Blessed Wolf.” In time he learned to wag his tail.
And so the years passed. White Fang grew old, gray whisker by gray whisker, and slower of step. Yet he maintained his stoic dignity and strength. He still guarded the gate and followed the trails, but now at a gentler gait.
One afternoon, long after his greatest exertions, White Fang lay down before the judge’s front gate. He did not rise when he was called. Judge Scott spoke to the veterinarian, who approached and gently examined him. “He has come to his end,” the man declared. “He has lived fully, and now he dies peacefully.”
White Fang’s breathing grew slow and even. He sank gradually to the ground, but there was no struggle. With his master’s voice in his ear, he closed his eyes and his heart stopped, the body relaxing into rest. Judge Scott knelt and stroked him, calling him softly, “My Blessed Wolf, my faithful friend…”
And so, with dignity befitting his proud spirit, White Fang passed into silence under the afternoon sun. The household mourned, but took solace in the honor of his life — a journey from wild wolf to beloved companion. Judge Scott arranged a memory: a simple stone marker beneath an oak in front of the house, inscribed with “White Fang – the Blessed Wolf, faithful till the end.”
CHAPTER XVII — THE TRAIL OF THE POSSUM-WOLF
White Fang took his place unassumingly outside Judge Scott’s house in the Sierra. He sought no formal entrance, but lay down in his habitual corner by the stables. Then he moved a few feet closer to the house, but he never entered. “No mere dog,” Judge Scott said from the kitchen door one morning, “could have acted so.” He watched White Fang ponder his household: the garden, the stables, the bench on the porch, the ever-moving house‑wife, and the master, as he came and went.
From time to time, White Fang came a little nearer, and more than once Mrs. Scott dropped scraps for him from the kitchen window. But always, when the master approached, White Fang slunk farther off, waiting until the man passed on his way in or out.
He was patient and content. Day by day he moved a few inches nearer until one morning he leisurely strolled through the open door, entered the house, and lay down at Judge Scott’s feet. The judge surveyed him quietly. “The dog shows sense,” he said, and patted him almost affectionately.
White Fang could have risen and gone, but he stayed, submitting himself to domesticity. Mrs. Scott spoke to him kindly, though at first White Fang did not respond. Gradually he lifted his head at her voice, while she spoke softly to him, calling him the “Blessed Wolf.” In time he learned to wag his tail.
And so the years passed. White Fang grew old, gray whisker by gray whisker, and slower of step. Yet he maintained his stoic dignity and strength. He still guarded the gate and followed the trails, but now at a gentler gait.
One afternoon, long after his greatest exertions, White Fang lay down before the judge’s front gate. He did not rise when he was called. Judge Scott spoke to the veterinarian, who approached and gently examined him. “He has come to his end,” the man declared. “He has lived fully, and now he dies peacefully.”
White Fang’s breathing grew slow and even. He sank gradually to the ground, but there was no struggle. With his master’s voice in his ear, he closed his eyes and his heart stopped, the body relaxing into rest. Judge Scott knelt and stroked him, calling him softly, “My Blessed Wolf, my faithful friend…”
And so, with dignity befitting his proud spirit, White Fang passed into silence under the afternoon sun. The household mourned, but took solace in the honor of his life — a journey from wild wolf to beloved companion. Judge Scott arranged a memory: a simple stone marker beneath an oak in front of the house, inscribed with “White Fang – the Blessed Wolf, faithful till the end.”
Shaolin Wolf
Tele-Meister
- Joined
- Mar 6, 2006
- Posts
- 307
“Some things are too terrible to grasp at once. Other things - naked, sputtering, indelible in their horror - are too terrible to really grasp ever at all. It is only later, in solitude, in memory that the realization dawns: when the ashes are cold; when the mourners have departed; when one looks around and finds oneself - quite to one's surprise - in an entirely different world.”
― Donna Tartt, The Secret History
― Donna Tartt, The Secret History
AAT65
Doctor of Teleocity
This is from a short story by Tove Jansson — not just the creator of the Moomins, she wrote many short stories and a couple of novels for adults, all very expressive and elegant. I read this passage shortly after my Mum had died - I can’t remember what the story is called. Tove Jansson was one of Mum’s favourite authors.
tonepoet333
Tele-Holic
When my Dad passed away in 2011 at 86, my Mom asked me to go through the "strong box" and sort out the papers. I came across the following anonymous poem written out in my Dad's handwriting and I can only think he meant for one of us sons to see this when he was gone, especially the last few lines.
A Dog’s Plea by Anonymous
"Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me learn.
Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.
Please take me inside when it is cold and wet, for I am a domesticated animal, no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth.
Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst.
Feed me clean food that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.
And, my friend, when I am very old, and I no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun.
Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth, knowing with the last breath I draw, that my fate was always safest in your hands."
=============================
Man, the last lines got to me big time. Especially "do not make heroic effort efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun." as his last 3 years he was getting beat up by stroke after stroke. And the kicker: Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands."
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
A Dog’s Plea by Anonymous
"Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me learn.
Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.
Please take me inside when it is cold and wet, for I am a domesticated animal, no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth.
Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst.
Feed me clean food that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life should your life be in danger.
And, my friend, when I am very old, and I no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun.
Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth, knowing with the last breath I draw, that my fate was always safest in your hands."
=============================
Man, the last lines got to me big time. Especially "do not make heroic effort efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun." as his last 3 years he was getting beat up by stroke after stroke. And the kicker: Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands."
tonepoet
www.jackshiner.com
