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Terminal Entries 6-7: Sanctuary Hills

SANCTUARY HILLS TERMINAL 004: ENTRY DATE 2287.12.08--16:45:20

I gathered myself, and anything I could carry. I had options, eventually I chose fire and brimstone. The molotovs were easy. I remember having to make a few back in Alaska. The Chinese tanks were deadly before power armor hit the scene. Couldn’t move even a foot out of cover or concealment when they rolled through, unless you got lucky. Sometimes you’d get really lucky, catch them when they’re off guard. That’s when you toss a bottle of vodka and a lit rag on top of them. Cooked them on the inside, even if they could get out they would be surrounded by flesh-singing flames and suffocated by black smoke. Killed 14 tanks in Anchorage, should be able to take out a few nitwits with a death wish.
I sharpened a few sticks, improvised a trough with a tin can and a wooden spoon. Hopefully it’ll work well enough. I’m going to be setting up some traps in the area. Pungi sticks. I wasn’t ever there, but I heard the stories of the poor bastards that stepped on them in Vietnam. 8 razor sharp spikes in one foot sends a strong, humbling message. My hope is the guys without guns will rush me without paying attention. I have three bundles of 32 sticks now. Should be enough for twelve spike traps. If one works then it’s worth the effort. I have ten more rounds for this piece of shit pipe gun, a tire iron, and four molotov cocktails that are less than perfect. Gotta work with what you’ve got, not what you want.

SANCTUARY HILLS TERMINAL 004: ENTRY DATE 2287.12.09--08:55:02

I hit the camp. Waited until the dead of night. There’s about a score of men in that camp but in the early morning they’ve only got four or five guards out. The women were still trapped in those godawful cages. While I made my traps, I noticed that one of the cages was empty when it wasn’t before. Screaming, kicking, shouting they dragged her back to her cage, out from one of the tents. Of course. Made me work faster, finished those traps in record time. My old gunny would have been proud.
I set up about 20 yards outside of the camp, lying in wait. Popping off one round brought them out and me down to nine rounds. Dangerously low on ammunition.
“What the fuck was that?”
“How should I know? Maybe it’s Terry?”
“Why would he be shooti-”
I cracked a round off right at the bastard. He was the only one armed. Round hit in his right shoulder, he dropped his gun and turned to run with the others. Two dropped into the pits, one tripped, and the one I shot got back inside. I bolted for the three. Swung my tire iron like a blacksmith rounding a flat into one of their skulls, eyes bulging out in all the wrong ways.
“Please! Please no, no, no!”
“Shut the fuck up and die, bastard.”
I hit the whiner right behind his ear. Eyes went out like a candle in a stiff breeze. The other one was just crying, trying to scoot away on his ass with his hands. He was young, with black grease smeared on his face like a goddamn finger painting. His face was flush with terror, rightly so. Three swift cracks to the chest plate caved it in, piercing his lungs. He gurgled out his last breath. Drowned on his own blood, he lied limp on the ground.
Quickly I looted them all. Grabbed their worthless bottlecaps for fun. Picked up two immaculate molotovs, a vintage 10mm pistol with a few rounds, and some Jet. I almost cried a single tear when I saw the 3 vials. Maybe they have more? I huffed that sweet, sweet nectar again. This time the memory wasn’t playful or kind. The wasteland around me melted into pearly snow. The tents became pillboxes embedded in the Alaskan dirt. Running around, shouting and hollering, the whitebread post-nuclear Bostonians became suddenly Chinese. I could only feel fury, coursing through my veins like a demonic hunger. The tire iron became a black sword, fuming with arcane smoke. In all honesty, it made me giggle. I lunged at the first Red bastard. Smacked him on the right shoulder, his cry rang out. I took him, used him as a shield while I moved into the first pillbox. Inside there were two armed soldiers, their AKs glistening in the candlelight. Threw the sword to the ground and grabbed what my 10 mil became. Cold steel of a Colt 1911 in my hand, raising true to the first soldier. First round went right between the eyes, second round missed. He dropped like a lead weight. Second one started shooting. Hit my meatshield twice, hit me in my side once. It was a glancing shot, mine weren’t. Three to the gut, one to the head. Tossed my meatshield and the colt to the ground, picked up the smoking sword again. I just peeked in their pockets, found a grenade. That gave me a good, hearty chuckle. I lit a molotov. They’re all awake now, milling around like goddamn ants.
Leaving the first pillbox was a mistake. Took a shot in the arm, another in the left leg. Got back into cover and waited. Three of the commie fuckers raced towards me, machetes at the ready. They were engulfed in flames almost as soon as you could hear the glass breaking at their feet. Their screaming, burning bodies provided enough distraction for me to hobble to the next unoccupied pillbox. Apparently someone wasn’t too distracted. I got rushed by a big mother. Completely unarmed, he knocked me straight to the ground. Got my face pounded for a good minute before I grabbed his fist and broke his wrist. Left hook to the chin got him dazed just long enough for me to get my thumbs hooked into his eyes. Even pressure, straight to the back of the skull popped his peepers. Blood washed over me, it was glory at its finest. Heaving the bastard off of me, I struggled to get up on my good leg. Looking at the man, a thought crept across my drug-addled brain. Better to have clothes that are too big than too small, right? I furiously strapped his leather armor on. Smelled like piss and cigarette burns, then again, didn’t I? The mask was the final touch. M10 series, old-school Israeli, before Tel Aviv fell. Still don’t know how the hell these fools got their hands on one. I bolted out of the pillbox, feigning that I was looking for the son of a bitch that attacked our beautiful raider camp. Saw a kitchen knife embedded in a log table. The handle was cold, the blade sharp. Carefully, I scoped the men for stragglers. Found my next target trembling in a corner. Guess the burning men hit a little too close to home for him. Came up next to him, offering my hand to help him up. He took it. As he got off balance, putting his weight in my hand, I plunged the blade deep into his chest hard and fast. Broke his rib cage to the left. Blade cut straight into his heart. I threw him in between the rickety staircase and the ground. Balancing my weight on my heels, floor creaking under me, I examined the battlefield. Four more men were trying to put out the spreading fire and failing. Five more were still looking around for me, but they were scattered.
A casual walk can really sell a clandestine operator. Everyone pays attention to somebody at a dead sprint. Nobody pays attention to a slow stroll.
“Hey! Need some help with that fire?”
“Hell yeah, get over here!”
My slow stroll became a casual jog over to the ‘firefighters’. Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed the freshly minted frag grenade. Pulled the pin and tucked it into one of their hoods.
“Actually, I gotta run guys.”
I started sprinting. The search party spotted me and started shouting. By the time they were close enough to fire, the grenade was already going off. The blast sent me reeling through the air, landed hard on a jutting rock. Broken femur. I could feel it jutting like the rock out of my thigh. Lucky it was my bad leg though.
The five men must have grouped up because they rounded the corner of the tent at once. I took a big hit of Jet, bigger than I ever have. My eyes felt like they were bulging out of my head, my hands started tingling. Everything slowed and got ten times brighter. It was so clear. I could see the individual fibers on one of the raider’s jackets. I could hear their heartbeats hammering away in their chests. I gripped my pipe pistol. Eight rounds left, five men. I had all the time in the world to line up my first shot, but I watched patiently as the middle man took 5 minutes to walk a step while lighting a molotov. I switched targets. One shot, and the flames lazily danced around their bodies. They slowly marched up their shoulders and wrapped around their heads. Their screams were deep and low, a grating growl. I laughed, and it was demonically slow. The camp was mine.
I searched their bodies. Found many guns, ammo, and a few military grade stimpacks that I cherished with a reverent glow. As soon as I found the first one, I pulled out the bullets with that kitchen knife and injected myself with it. There’s nothing quite like a fresh stimpack. Flesh knots and shifts together to close wounds, underneath it you can feel the veins and arteries knitting themselves back together. My thigh took on a mind of its own. It was as if it grabbed my femur and bent it back into place. I screamed loudly for a good half hour as it took effect. The women were terrified of me. Thought I was just a stronger raider than they had been dealing with. I let them out and they ran back into the wastes, too fast for me to stop them. Most got through fine, but a lanky, black-haired girl fell into a pit. She screamed louder than I did. Used the second stimpack I found on her. She was grateful, but still hesitant. I removed my mask and smiled, but mine is a somewhat psychotic smile so I don’t know if that helped or hurt my case. Either way, I needed someone to carry all this shit back to Sanctuary with me. Found a cooler with a shitload of Jet, some Mentats and Med-X in it. Took that cooler myself.
We got back to Sanctuary last night. I made her a bed from the tattered sheets still hanging on the windows of the Leung house. I tried to catch a good night’s sleep, but her crying kept me up. Didn’t have the heart to tell her to be quiet, so I settled for falling asleep after she did. God it felt good to finally close my eyes.
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100 Best First Lines from Novels

  1. Call me Ishmael. —Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (1851)
  2. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (1813)
  3. A screaming comes across the sky. —Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow (1973)
  4. Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. —Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967; trans. Gregory Rabassa)
  5. Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. —Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita (1955)
  6. Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (1877; trans. Constance Garnett)
  7. riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs. —James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (1939)
  8. It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. —George Orwell, 1984 (1949)
  9. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)
  10. I am an invisible man. —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (1952)
  11. The Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post-Dispatch (Are you in trouble?—Do-you-need-advice?—Write-to-Miss-Lonelyhearts-and-she-will-help-you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard. —Nathanael West, Miss Lonelyhearts (1933)
  12. You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. —Mark Twain, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885)
  13. Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything truly wrong, he was arrested. —Franz Kafka, The Trial (1925; trans. Breon Mitchell)
  14. You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler. —Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveler (1979; trans. William Weaver)
  15. The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new. —Samuel Beckett, Murphy (1938)
  16. If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. —J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (1951)
  17. Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. —James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916)
  18. This is the saddest story I have ever heard. —Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier (1915)
  19. I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly considered how much depended upon what they were then doing;—that not only the production of a rational Being was concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and temperature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of his mind;—and, for aught they knew to the contrary, even the fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the humours and dispositions which were then uppermost:—Had they duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly,—I am verily persuaded I should have made a quite different figure in the world, from that, in which the reader is likely to see me. —Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy (1759–1767)
  20. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield (1850)
  21. Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. —James Joyce, Ulysses (1922)
  22. It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. —Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)
  23. One summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary. —Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49 (1966)
  24. It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. —Paul Auster, City of Glass (1985)
  25. Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting. —William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury (1929)
  26. 124 was spiteful. —Toni Morrison, Beloved (1987)
  27. Somewhere in la Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing. —Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote (1605; trans. Edith Grossman)
  28. Mother died today. —Albert Camus, The Stranger (1942; trans. Stuart Gilbert)
  29. Every summer Lin Kong returned to Goose Village to divorce his wife, Shuyu. —Ha Jin, Waiting (1999)
  30. The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel. —William Gibson, Neuromancer (1984)
  31. I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man. —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground (1864; trans. Michael R. Katz)
  32. Where now? Who now? When now? —Samuel Beckett, The Unnamable (1953; trans. Patrick Bowles)
  33. Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. "Stop!" cried the groaning old man at last, "Stop! I did not drag my father beyond this tree." —Gertrude Stein, The Making of Americans (1925)
  34. In a sense, I am Jacob Horner. —John Barth, The End of the Road (1958)
  35. It was like so, but wasn't. —Richard Powers, Galatea 2.2 (1995)
  36. —Money . . . in a voice that rustled. —William Gaddis, J R (1975)
  37. Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. —Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway (1925)
  38. All this happened, more or less. —Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five (1969)
  39. They shoot the white girl first. —Toni Morrison, Paradise (1998)
  40. For a long time, I went to bed early. —Marcel Proust, Swann's Way (1913; trans. Lydia Davis)
  41. The moment one learns English, complications set in. —Felipe Alfau, Chromos (1990)
  42. Dr. Weiss, at forty, knew that her life had been ruined by literature. —Anita Brookner, The Debut (1981)
  43. I was the shadow of the waxwing slain / By the false azure in the windowpane; —Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire (1962)
  44. Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board. —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937)
  45. I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story. —Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome (1911)
  46. Ages ago, Alex, Allen and Alva arrived at Antibes, and Alva allowing all, allowing anyone, against Alex's admonition, against Allen's angry assertion: another African amusement . . . anyhow, as all argued, an awesome African army assembled and arduously advanced against an African anthill, assiduously annihilating ant after ant, and afterward, Alex astonishingly accuses Albert as also accepting Africa's antipodal ant annexation. —Walter Abish, Alphabetical Africa (1974)
  47. There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it. —C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952)
  48. He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. —Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea (1952)
  49. It was the day my grandmother exploded. —Iain M. Banks, The Crow Road (1992)
  50. I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. —Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex (2002)
  51. Elmer Gantry was drunk. —Sinclair Lewis, Elmer Gantry (1927)
  52. We started dying before the snow, and like the snow, we continued to fall. —Louise Erdrich, Tracks (1988)
  53. It was a pleasure to burn. —Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (1953)
  54. A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. —Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (1951)
  55. Having placed in my mouth sufficient bread for three minutes' chewing, I withdrew my powers of sensual perception and retired into the privacy of my mind, my eyes and face assuming a vacant and preoccupied expression. —Flann O'Brien, At Swim-Two-Birds (1939)
  56. I was born in the Year 1632, in the City of York, of a good Family, tho' not of that Country, my Father being a Foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull; He got a good Estate by Merchandise, and leaving off his Trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my Mother, whose Relations were named Robinson, a very good Family in that Country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but by the usual Corruption of Words in England, we are now called, nay we call our selves, and write our Name Crusoe, and so my Companions always call'd me. —Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe (1719)
  57. In the beginning, sometimes I left messages in the street. —David Markson, Wittgenstein's Mistress (1988)
  58. Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress. —George Eliot, Middlemarch (1872)
  59. It was love at first sight. —Joseph Heller, Catch-22 (1961)
  60. What if this young woman, who writes such bad poems, in competition with her husband, whose poems are equally bad, should stretch her remarkably long and well-made legs out before you, so that her skirt slips up to the tops of her stockings? —Gilbert Sorrentino, Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things (1971)
  61. I have never begun a novel with more misgiving. —W. Somerset Maugham, The Razor's Edge (1944)
  62. Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person. —Anne Tyler, Back When We Were Grownups (2001)
  63. The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up. —G. K. Chesterton, The Napoleon of Notting Hill (1904)
  64. In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1925)
  65. You better not never tell nobody but God. —Alice Walker, The Color Purple (1982)
  66. "To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die." —Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses (1988)
  67. It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York. —Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar (1963)
  68. Most really pretty girls have pretty ugly feet, and so does Mindy Metalman, Lenore notices, all of a sudden. —David Foster Wallace, The Broom of the System (1987)
  69. If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog. —Saul Bellow, Herzog (1964)
  70. Francis Marion Tarwater's uncle had been dead for only half a day when the boy got too drunk to finish digging his grave and a Negro named Buford Munson, who had come to get a jug filled, had to finish it and drag the body from the breakfast table where it was still sitting and bury it in a decent and Christian way, with the sign of its Saviour at the head of the grave and enough dirt on top to keep the dogs from digging it up. —Flannery O'Connor, The Violent Bear it Away (1960)
  71. Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital; my keeper is watching me, he never lets me out of his sight; there's a peephole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can never see through a blue-eyed type like me. —GŸnter Grass, The Tin Drum (1959; trans. Ralph Manheim)
  72. When Dick Gibson was a little boy he was not Dick Gibson. —Stanley Elkin, The Dick Gibson Show (1971)
  73. Hiram Clegg, together with his wife Emma and four friends of the faith from Randolph Junction, were summoned by the Spirit and Mrs. Clara Collins, widow of the beloved Nazarene preacher Ely Collins, to West Condon on the weekend of the eighteenth and nineteenth of April, there to await the End of the World. —Robert Coover, The Origin of the Brunists (1966)
  74. She waited, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself, in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him. —Henry James, The Wings of the Dove (1902)
  75. In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains. —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (1929)
  76. "Take my camel, dear," said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass. —Rose Macaulay, The Towers of Trebizond (1956)
  77. He was an inch, perhaps two, under six feet, powerfully built, and he advanced straight at you with a slight stoop of the shoulders, head forward, and a fixed from-under stare which made you think of a charging bull. —Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim (1900)
  78. The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. —L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between (1953)
  79. On my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly ben the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen. —Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker (1980)
  80. Justice?—You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law. —William Gaddis, A Frolic of His Own (1994)
  81. Vaughan died yesterday in his last car-crash. —J. G. Ballard, Crash (1973)
  82. I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. —Dodie Smith, I Capture the Castle (1948)
  83. "When your mama was the geek, my dreamlets," Papa would say, "she made the nipping off of noggins such a crystal mystery that the hens themselves yearned toward her, waltzing around her, hypnotized with longing." —Katherine Dunn, Geek Love (1983)
  84. In the last years of the Seventeenth Century there was to be found among the fops and fools of the London coffee-houses one rangy, gangling flitch called Ebenezer Cooke, more ambitious than talented, and yet more talented than prudent, who, like his friends-in-folly, all of whom were supposed to be educating at Oxford or Cambridge, had found the sound of Mother English more fun to game with than her sense to labor over, and so rather than applying himself to the pains of scholarship, had learned the knack of versifying, and ground out quires of couplets after the fashion of the day, afroth with Joves and Jupiters, aclang with jarring rhymes, and string-taut with similes stretched to the snapping-point. —John Barth, The Sot-Weed Factor (1960)
  85. When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon. —James Crumley, The Last Good Kiss (1978)
  86. It was just noon that Sunday morning when the sheriff reached the jail with Lucas Beauchamp though the whole town (the whole county too for that matter) had known since the night before that Lucas had killed a white man. —William Faulkner, Intruder in the Dust (1948)
  87. I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot," or "That Claudius," or "Claudius the Stammerer," or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius," am now about to write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest childhood and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the "golden predicament" from which I have never since become disentangled. —Robert Graves, I, Claudius (1934)
  88. Of all the things that drive men to sea, the most common disaster, I've come to learn, is women. —Charles Johnson, Middle Passage (1990)
  89. I am an American, Chicago born—Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. —Saul Bellow, The Adventures of Augie March (1953)
  90. The towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. —Sinclair Lewis, Babbitt (1922)
  91. I will tell you in a few words who I am: lover of the hummingbird that darts to the flower beyond the rotted sill where my feet are propped; lover of bright needlepoint and the bright stitching fingers of humorless old ladies bent to their sweet and infamous designs; lover of parasols made from the same puffy stuff as a young girl's underdrawers; still lover of that small naval boat which somehow survived the distressing years of my life between her decks or in her pilothouse; and also lover of poor dear black Sonny, my mess boy, fellow victim and confidant, and of my wife and child. But most of all, lover of my harmless and sanguine self. —John Hawkes, Second Skin (1964)
  92. He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad. —Raphael Sabatini, Scaramouche (1921)
  93. Psychics can see the color of time it's blue. —Ronald Sukenick, Blown Away (1986)
  94. In the town, there were two mutes and they were always together. —Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940)
  95. Once upon a time two or three weeks ago, a rather stubborn and determined middle-aged man decided to record for posterity, exactly as it happened, word by word and step by step, the story of another man for indeed what is great in man is that he is a bridge and not a goal, a somewhat paranoiac fellow unmarried, unattached, and quite irresponsible, who had decided to lock himself in a room a furnished room with a private bath, cooking facilities, a bed, a table, and at least one chair, in New York City, for a year 365 days to be precise, to write the story of another person—a shy young man about of 19 years old—who, after the war the Second World War, had come to America the land of opportunities from France under the sponsorship of his uncle—a journalist, fluent in five languages—who himself had come to America from Europe Poland it seems, though this was not clearly established sometime during the war after a series of rather gruesome adventures, and who, at the end of the war, wrote to the father his cousin by marriage of the young man whom he considered as a nephew, curious to know if he the father and his family had survived the German occupation, and indeed was deeply saddened to learn, in a letter from the young man—a long and touching letter written in English, not by the young man, however, who did not know a damn word of English, but by a good friend of his who had studied English in school—that his parents both his father and mother and his two sisters one older and the other younger than he had been deported they were Jewish to a German concentration camp Auschwitz probably and never returned, no doubt having been exterminated deliberately X * X * X * X, and that, therefore, the young man who was now an orphan, a displaced person, who, during the war, had managed to escape deportation by working very hard on a farm in Southern France, would be happy and grateful to be given the opportunity to come to America that great country he had heard so much about and yet knew so little about to start a new life, possibly go to school, learn a trade, and become a good, loyal citizen. —Raymond Federman, Double or Nothing (1971)
  96. Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. —Margaret Atwood, Cat's Eye (1988)
  97. He—for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it—was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters. —Virginia Woolf, Orlando (1928)
  98. High, high above the North Pole, on the first day of 1969, two professors of English Literature approached each other at a combined velocity of 1200 miles per hour. —David Lodge, Changing Places (1975)
  99. They say when trouble comes close ranks, and so the white people did. —Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea (1966)
  100. The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. —Stephen Crane, The Red Badge of Courage (1895)
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