"I'm Homer, the blind brother."
-- Homer and Langley by E. L. Doctorow
It this book weren't based on a true story about real brothers, the whole blind Homer thing would be too gimmicky.
To be sure about nonsense he had to be able to classify it, assign it to a family tree of liberal nonsense, humanist-humanitarian nonsense, academic nonsense, Protestant nonsense, Freudian nonsense and so on. Macher’s nonsense stopped before he could get deep enough into it.Or his dipsomaniacal observations, such as:
Not caring what one drank unfortunately did not guarantee not caring what one had drunk.Fans will eat it up. Amis neophytes should start with Lucky Jim.
"It's easy to get the feeling that you know the language just because when you order a beer they don't bring you oysters," Paul said. But after seeing a movie about a clown who cried through his laughter, or laughed through his tears -- we couldn't tell which -- even Paul felt discombobulated.-- My Life in France by Julia Child
Elsie Hoover turned around fast at the oven with a peach pie on a tin plate held out in her hands.--Eden Springs by Laura Kasischke
He felt that there was something ridiculous in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he threw himself upon his bed, without people who were forty years old imagining they wanted to get married.-- O Pioneers! by Willa Cather

Who’s your favorite author that other people are NOT reading? The one you want to evangelize for, the one you would run popularity campaigns for? The author that, so far as you’re concerned, everyone should be reading–but that nobody seems to have heard of. You know, not JK Rowling, not Jane Austen, not Hemingway–everybody’s heard of them. The author that you think should be that famous and can’t understand why they’re not…
So this last month was, as I believe you people say, a bust. I had high hopes for it too; it was Christmastime in England, and I was intending to do a little holiday comfort reading -- David Copperfield and a couple of John Bunyan novels, say, while sipping an eggnog and heroically plowing my way through some enormous animal carcass or another.
During the two weeks before the event he would cannibalize an appropriate police uniform and the accompanying accouterments. He had already, weeks before, got hold of a police badge and the papers of a defunct colleague -- nothing that could withstand intensive scrutiny, but good enough to pass routine inspection while approaching the cordons leading to the Bolshoi Theatre.
Since Balzac's day, of course, Paris has changed. No one is too ambitious, since its populace is now cosseted in the meagre but constant comforts of the socialist state, and the city's glory days are long in the past.



