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'Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in peace!'
A cold voice answered: 'Come not between the Nazgul and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.'
A sword rang as it was drawn. 'Do what you will; but i will hinder it, if I may.'
'Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!'
Then Merry heard of all the sounds in that hour the strangest. It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and that clear voice was like the ring of steel. 'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you if you touch him'
/me chokes up a bit.
Yeah, that part always gets to me for some reason.
Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east.
Might want to spoiler the Huxley one, although it is one of my favorite (and personally chilling) endings of any novel.
Well, I was operating on the idea that the quote, out of context, is pretty meaningless. So, if you haven't read it, it isn't really a spoiler. If you have read it, it's an awesome end.
Can we talk about that ending? I thought it was interesting, but I didn't feel like I quite understood why it ends that way. What do you think? Give me a lil bit of literary analysis here
I mean, the act of him killing himself seems pretty straightforward, but that last sentence, why is it described that way?
So, I think there are two things at play here. First off, Mr. Savage is the only person in the story that seems to be able to live a more complete human existence. He is a whole and humanistic person, but in his death, you only see his feet. My take on this was that it was a mirroring of the fact that Mr. Savage became a sensationalised media figure. His death is only illustrated by his feet, not as the whole person.
The second and likely more important aspect of this passage is the directions thing. Aldous Huxley, apparently, was fairly knowledgeable of Buddhism (read Island by Aldous Huxley to see clearer evidence of this). In Buddhism, there's a story that Siddhartha Gautama took seven steps in each cardinal direction and then announced that he would not be born again, indicating that he would find enlightenment. I think the compass thing echoes this story. Mr. Savage realised that nowhere in this "brave new world" could he find "enlightenment". Everyone is clinging firmly to the material world and Mr. Savage decides to escape this world by killing himself. In a sense, he found enlightenment from the ills and materialism of the world by hanging himself.
I know it says novel passages, but so many of the passages appeared to be philosophical monologues on the meaning of life that I felt I had to add this movie quote:
Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love... true love never dies. You remember that, boy. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in.
Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east.
Might want to spoiler the Huxley one, although it is one of my favorite (and personally chilling) endings of any novel.
Well, I was operating on the idea that the quote, out of context, is pretty meaningless. So, if you haven't read it, it isn't really a spoiler. If you have read it, it's an awesome end.
Can we talk about that ending? I thought it was interesting, but I didn't feel like I quite understood why it ends that way. What do you think? Give me a lil bit of literary analysis here
I mean, the act of him killing himself seems pretty straightforward, but that last sentence, why is it described that way?
So, I think there are two things at play here. First off, Mr. Savage is the only person in the story that seems to be able to live a more complete human existence. He is a whole and humanistic person, but in his death, you only see his feet. My take on this was that it was a mirroring of the fact that Mr. Savage became a sensationalised media figure. His death is only illustrated by his feet, not as the whole person.
The second and likely more important aspect of this passage is the directions thing. Aldous Huxley, apparently, was fairly knowledgeable of Buddhism (read Island by Aldous Huxley to see clearer evidence of this). In Buddhism, there's a story that Siddhartha Gautama took seven steps in each cardinal direction and then announced that he would not be born again, indicating that he would find enlightenment. I think the compass thing echoes this story. Mr. Savage realised that nowhere in this "brave new world" could he find "enlightenment". Everyone is clinging firmly to the material world and Mr. Savage decides to escape this world by killing himself. In a sense, he found enlightenment from the ills and materialism of the world by hanging himself.
i actually considered it symbolic of the cyclical nature of time. things go one way and then they go back, a warning that some of the practices of the past can lead to situations like the one described in the future.
it also had some christian undertones with the flaggelating followed by killing himself
I've always loved the ending of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:
And so we ride on and on, down through Ukiah, and Hopland, and Cloverdale, down into the wine country. The freeway miles seem so easy now. The engine which has carried us halfway across a continent drones on and on in its continuing oblivion to everything but its own internal forces. We pass through Asti and Santa Rosa, and Petaluma and Novato, on the freeway that grows wider and fuller now, swelling with cars and trucks and busses full of people, and soon by the road are houses and boats and the water of the Bay.
Trials never end, of course. Unhappiness and misfortune are bound to occur as long as people live, but there is a feeling now, that was not here before, and is not just on the surface of things, but penetrates all the way through: We've won it. It's going to get better now. You can sort of tell these things.
So, I think there are two things at play here. First off, Mr. Savage is the only person in the story that seems to be able to live a more complete human existence. He is a whole and humanistic person, but in his death, you only see his feet. My take on this was that it was a mirroring of the fact that Mr. Savage became a sensationalised media figure. His death is only illustrated by his feet, not as the whole person.
The second and likely more important aspect of this passage is the directions thing. Aldous Huxley, apparently, was fairly knowledgeable of Buddhism (read Island by Aldous Huxley to see clearer evidence of this). In Buddhism, there's a story that Siddhartha Gautama took seven steps in each cardinal direction and then announced that he would not be born again, indicating that he would find enlightenment. I think the compass thing echoes this story. Mr. Savage realised that nowhere in this "brave new world" could he find "enlightenment". Everyone is clinging firmly to the material world and Mr. Savage decides to escape this world by killing himself. In a sense, he found enlightenment from the ills and materialism of the world by hanging himself.
i actually considered it symbolic of the cyclical nature of time. things go one way and then they go back, a warning that some of the practices of the past can lead to situations like the one described in the future.
it also had some christian undertones with the flaggelating followed by killing himself
Well, you're wrong.
No, I'm kidding. That's probably also a a decent way of looking at it too.
I fucking hated the end of Brave New World. The whole book just seemed like a cheaper 1984.
Umaro on
0
tuxkamenreally took this picture.Registered Userregular
edited August 2008
Not exactly a novel, but from the Shushougi:
"Praise the man of virtue, pity the virtueless man. Let loving words lie at the source when a sworn enemy's hatred is overcome or wise men are reconciled. Kind words heard face to face bring gladness of heart; kind words spoken in one's absence are engraved upon heart and soul. Know ye that the power of loving words can move heaven and earth."
As Morrel and his son embraced on the pier-head, in the presence and amid the applause of the whole city witnessing this event, a man, with his face half-covered by a black beard, and who, concealed behind the sentry-box, watched the scene with delight, uttered these words in a low tone: "Be happy, noble heart, be blessed for all the good thou hast done and wilt do hereafter, and let my gratitude remain in obscurity like your good deeds."
And with a smile expressive of supreme content, he left his hiding-place, and without being observed, descended one of the flights of steps provided for debarkation, and hailing three times, shouted "Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then a launch came to shore, took him on board, and conveyed him to a yacht splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he sprung with the activity of a sailor; thence he once again looked towards Morrel, who, weeping with joy, was shaking hands most cordially with all the crowd around him, and thanking with a look the unknown benefactor whom he seemed to be seeking in the skies. "And now," said the unknown, "farewell kindness, humanity, and gratitude! Farewell to all the feelings that expand the heart! I have been heaven's substitute to recompense the good -- now the god of vengeance yields to me
his power to punish the wicked!" At these words he gave a signal, and, as if only awaiting this signal, the yacht instantly put out to sea.
I got chills when I read this - a man so consciously transforming himself from the good Dr. Jekyll into a conniving and hateful Hyde.
SithDrummer on
0
tuxkamenreally took this picture.Registered Userregular
edited August 2008
Somehow, I managed to read The Count of Monte Cristo instead of 1984 or Brave New World in junior high. I think I got the long end of the stick on that one; reading them later on bored me to tears.
Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury, Quentin section:
When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight oclock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch. It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's. I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
Versh told me about a man who mutilated himself. He went into the woods and did it with a razor, sitting in a ditch. A broken razor flinging them backward over his shoulder the same motion complete the jerked skein of blood backward not looping. But that's not it. It's not not having them. It's never to have had them then I could say O That That's Chinese I dont know Chinese. And Father said it's because you are a virgin: dont you see?
"I tried to explain to Lalani that she could not come back with me to civilization, that she would die there. A tear trickled down her cheek. Then she put something in my hand. It was a shrunken head. The same one that had made us laugh so much that first day."
Can I just quote the last three or four pages of Catch-22?
"Danby, Orr planned it that way. Don't you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning. He even practiced getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he flew. And I wouldn't go with him! Oh, why wouldn't I listen? He invited me along, and I wouldn't go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valve to fix and a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness. I'll need them all. Oh, why wouldn't I listen to him. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me."
...
"But you can't just turn your back on all your responsibilies and run away from them," Major Danby insisted. "It's such a negative move. It's escapist."
Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. "I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm running to them. There's nothing negative about running away to save my life. You know who the escapists are, don't you Danby? Not me and Orr."
...
"Are you going to stop me?" Yossarian asked Major Danby, and gazed at him steadily.
Major Danby skipped away from the chaplain and hesitated a moment longer. "No, of course not! he blurted out, and suddenly was waving both arms toward the door in a gesture of exuberant urgency. "Of course I won't stop you. Go, for God's sake, and hurry! Do you need any money?"
"I have some money."
"Well, here's some more." With a fervent, excited enthusiasm, Major Danby pressed a thick wad of Italian currency upon Yossarian and clasped his hand in both his own, as much as to still his own trembling fingers as to give encouragement to Yossarian. "It must be nice to be in Sweden now," he observed yearningly. "The girls are so sweet. And the people are so advanced."
"Goodbye, Yossarian," the chaplain called. "And good luck. I'll stay here and persevere, and we'll meet again when the fighting stops."
"So long, Chaplain. Thanks, Danby."
"How do you feel, Yossarian?"
"Fine. No, I'm very frightened."
"That's good," said Major Danby. "It proves you're still alive. It won't be fun."
Yossarian started out. "Yes it will."
"I mean it, Yossarian. You'll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They'll bend heaven and earth to catch you."
"I'll keep on my toes every minute."
"You'll have to jump."
"I'll jump."
"Jump!" Major Danby cried.
Yossarian jumped. Nately's whore was hiding just outside the dooor. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.
Eat it You Nasty Pig. on
hold your head high soldier, it ain't over yet
that's why we call it the struggle, you're supposed to sweat
My problem with 1984 was that even though it basically invented its genre, I got to it far later than I did to many other things in said genre, so it was pretty much totally boring. Not its fault exactly, but what can you do.
My problem with 1984 was that even though it basically invented its genre, I got to it far later than I did to many other things in said genre, so it was pretty much totally boring. Not its fault exactly, but what can you do.
So you got Lord of the Rings'd. I've always felt that way about Tolkien's works...he pretty much created the fantasy genre, but by the time I read them I couldn't help but think, "Man, this is pretty fucking unoriginal". (Granted, this was before I knew how old it was, as I was only about 10 or so, but that feeling has stuck with me, and I've never really been able to enjoy him as a writer)
Can I just quote the last three or four pages of Catch-22?
"Danby, Orr planned it that way. Don't you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning. He even practiced getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he flew. And I wouldn't go with him! Oh, why wouldn't I listen? He invited me along, and I wouldn't go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valve to fix and a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness. I'll need them all. Oh, why wouldn't I listen to him. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me."
...
"But you can't just turn your back on all your responsibilies and run away from them," Major Danby insisted. "It's such a negative move. It's escapist."
Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. "I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm running to them. There's nothing negative about running away to save my life. You know who the escapists are, don't you Danby? Not me and Orr."
...
"Are you going to stop me?" Yossarian asked Major Danby, and gazed at him steadily.
Major Danby skipped away from the chaplain and hesitated a moment longer. "No, of course not! he blurted out, and suddenly was waving both arms toward the door in a gesture of exuberant urgency. "Of course I won't stop you. Go, for God's sake, and hurry! Do you need any money?"
"I have some money."
"Well, here's some more." With a fervent, excited enthusiasm, Major Danby pressed a thick wad of Italian currency upon Yossarian and clasped his hand in both his own, as much as to still his own trembling fingers as to give encouragement to Yossarian. "It must be nice to be in Sweden now," he observed yearningly. "The girls are so sweet. And the people are so advanced."
"Goodbye, Yossarian," the chaplain called. "And good luck. I'll stay here and persevere, and we'll meet again when the fighting stops."
"So long, Chaplain. Thanks, Danby."
"How do you feel, Yossarian?"
"Fine. No, I'm very frightened."
"That's good," said Major Danby. "It proves you're still alive. It won't be fun."
Yossarian started out. "Yes it will."
"I mean it, Yossarian. You'll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They'll bend heaven and earth to catch you."
"I'll keep on my toes every minute."
"You'll have to jump."
"I'll jump."
"Jump!" Major Danby cried.
Yossarian jumped. Nately's whore was hiding just outside the dooor. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.
Now this above quote makes no sense devoid of context so don't read it if you haven't read the novel, but it is absolutely made of win.
Also there needs to be a word for what Vincent said, it happens a lot.
A passage from The Little Friend by Donna Tartt. The eleven-year-old protagonist is a bit of a nerd, and has just been reading about Captain Scott's doomed expedition into the Antarctic. Her cat has died.
Harriet didn't flinch. Gingerly, she slid her hand to touch the pink spot on the cat's side where the hair had never quite grown right, the pace the maggots had eaten when he was tiny. Weenie, in life, would never let anybody touch him there; he would hiss and take a swipe at anybody who tried it, even Allison. But the cat was still, his lips drawn back from the clenched needles of his teeth. The skin was puckered, rough like brushed gloveskin, and cold cold cold.
So this was the secret, what Captain Scott and Lazarus and Robin all knew, what even the cat had come to know in its last hour: this was it, the passage to the stained-glass window. When Scott's tent was found, eight months later, Bowers and Wilson lay with their sleeping bags closed over their heads and Scott was in an open bag with his arm thrown over Wilson. That was the Antarctic, and this was a breezy morning in May, but the form beneath her palm was as hard as ice. She ran a knuckle over Weenie's white-stockinged forefoot. It seems a pity, Scott had written with his stiffening hand, as the white closed in softly from the white immensities, and the faint pencil letters grew fainter on the white paper, but I do not think I can write any more.
It might not work all that well out of context, though. Death is practically a character in its own right in this book.
I saw someone mention American Gods. I thought Gaiman was a hack after I read Neverwhere, but that book was amazing. But, here's a passage from one of my favorite books...
As read at a graduation ceremony for mentally and emotionally handicapped students
And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house during the reading of "Oh the Places You'll Go."
The exchange between Mustapha Mond and the Savage in chapter 17 in Brave New World is pretty great. The whole explication of the way Fordian society works really raises a lot of interesting questions.
The ending of Wise Blood is great as well.
She felt as if she were blocked at the entrance of something. She sat staring with her eyes shut, into his eyes, and felt she had finally got to the beginning of something she couldn't begin, and she saw him moving farther and farther into the darkness until he was the pin point of light.
I don't know if this counts, but the simple language and the sketching in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions get me.
The beaver was actually a large rodent... It looked like this:
The sort of beaver which excited news photographers so much looked like this:
This was where babies come from.
Episode 17, Ithica, of Ulysses fascinates me. The way Joyce dissects that bit of time in which Stephen and Bloom visit in Bloom's abode is incredible. No stone is left unturned.
The entirety of Crime and Punishment was excellent, too. Y'all have good taste.
Golden Leg on
0
DrakeEdgelord TrashBelow the ecliptic plane.Registered Userregular
I don't know if this counts, but the simple language and the sketching in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions get me.
The beaver was actually a large rodent... It looked like this:
The sort of beaver which excited news photographers so much looked like this:
This was where babies come from.
Yeah, that's what I love about Vonnegut. He packs the sublime into the simplest language. It's almost like he's talking to us like we are three, but instead of being insulted, I feel like I'm hearing Big Things from a wise old guy who likes me a lot.
Can I just quote the last three or four pages of Catch-22?
"Danby, Orr planned it that way. Don't you understand—he planned it that way from the beginning. He even practiced getting shot down. He rehearsed for it on every mission he flew. And I wouldn't go with him! Oh, why wouldn't I listen? He invited me along, and I wouldn't go with him! Danby, bring me buck teeth too, and a valve to fix and a look of stupid innocence that nobody would ever suspect of any cleverness. I'll need them all. Oh, why wouldn't I listen to him. Now I understand what he was trying to tell me."
...
"But you can't just turn your back on all your responsibilies and run away from them," Major Danby insisted. "It's such a negative move. It's escapist."
Yossarian laughed with buoyant scorn and shook his head. "I'm not running away from my responsibilities. I'm running to them. There's nothing negative about running away to save my life. You know who the escapists are, don't you Danby? Not me and Orr."
...
"Are you going to stop me?" Yossarian asked Major Danby, and gazed at him steadily.
Major Danby skipped away from the chaplain and hesitated a moment longer. "No, of course not! he blurted out, and suddenly was waving both arms toward the door in a gesture of exuberant urgency. "Of course I won't stop you. Go, for God's sake, and hurry! Do you need any money?"
"I have some money."
"Well, here's some more." With a fervent, excited enthusiasm, Major Danby pressed a thick wad of Italian currency upon Yossarian and clasped his hand in both his own, as much as to still his own trembling fingers as to give encouragement to Yossarian. "It must be nice to be in Sweden now," he observed yearningly. "The girls are so sweet. And the people are so advanced."
"Goodbye, Yossarian," the chaplain called. "And good luck. I'll stay here and persevere, and we'll meet again when the fighting stops."
"So long, Chaplain. Thanks, Danby."
"How do you feel, Yossarian?"
"Fine. No, I'm very frightened."
"That's good," said Major Danby. "It proves you're still alive. It won't be fun."
Yossarian started out. "Yes it will."
"I mean it, Yossarian. You'll have to keep on your toes every minute of every day. They'll bend heaven and earth to catch you."
"I'll keep on my toes every minute."
"You'll have to jump."
"I'll jump."
"Jump!" Major Danby cried.
Yossarian jumped. Nately's whore was hiding just outside the dooor. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.
Now this above quote makes no sense devoid of context so don't read it if you haven't read the novel, but it is absolutely made of win.
Yeah, I tried to come up with a better way to cut it up, but I couldn't really (and actually posting the last four pages seemed excessive.) So I just sniped my favorite parts. The whole end of the novel has a fantastic energy to it.
Eat it You Nasty Pig. on
hold your head high soldier, it ain't over yet
that's why we call it the struggle, you're supposed to sweat
I saw someone mention American Gods. I thought Gaiman was a hack after I read Neverwhere, but that book was amazing. But, here's a passage from one of my favorite books...
As read at a graduation ceremony for mentally and emotionally handicapped students
And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house during the reading of "Oh the Places You'll Go."
My history teacher (from Junior year) read that book in it's entirety at my graduation.
Where do I get my ideas from? You might as well asked that of Beethoven. He was goofing around in Germany like everybody else, and all of a sudden this stuff came gushing out of him. It was music. I was goofing around like everybody else in Indiana, and all of a sudden stuff came gushing out. It was disgust with civlization.
I fucking hated the end of Brave New World. The whole book just seemed like a cheaper 1984.
I thought the entire book was awful. Huxley couldn't write for shit.
For truth. Protip: When your entire plot is built around a series of deus ex machinae, you might want to rethink it. However I did appreciate how Brave New World features basically a far-left dystopia as opposed to 1984's far-right dystopia.
And while we're on the subject of Vonnegut, I thought I'd post a couple of my favorites(both from Slaughterhouse Five).
Billy Pilgrim padded downstairs on his blue and ivory feet. He went into the kitchen, where the moonlight called his attention to a half bottle of champagne on the kitchen table, all that was left from the reception in the tent. Somebody had stoppered it again. "Drink me," it seemed to say.
So Billy uncorked it with his thumbs. It didn't make a pop. The champagne was dead. So it goes.
Billy looked at the clock on the gas stove. He had an hour to kill before the saucer came. He went into the living room, swinging the bottle like a dinner bell, turned on the television. He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this :
American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.
The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.
When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.
The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.
I saw someone mention American Gods. I thought Gaiman was a hack after I read Neverwhere, but that book was amazing. But, here's a passage from one of my favorite books...
As read at a graduation ceremony for mentally and emotionally handicapped students
And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.
But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house during the reading of "Oh the Places You'll Go."
My history teacher (from Junior year) read that book in it's entirety at my graduation.
I read this first without unspoilering it and went "Holy god he read all of American Gods at your graduation?"
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—to-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Hell, let's start this page off with a couple Fitzgerald passages.
I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.
It was seven o’clock when we got into the coupe with him and started for Long Island. Tom talked incessantly, exulting and laughing, but his voice was as remote from Jordan and me as the foreign clamor on the sidewalk or the tumult of the elevated overhead. Human sympathy has its limits, and we were content to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. Thirty—the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me, who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat’s shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.
So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight.
There was no God in his heart, he knew; his ideas were still in riot; there was ever the pain of memory; the regret for his lost youth—yet the waters of disillusion had left a deposit on his soul, responsibility and a love of life, the faint stirring of old ambitions and unrealized dreams. But—oh, Rosalind! Rosalind!...
"It's all a poor substitute at best," he said sadly.
And he could not tell why the struggle was worth while, why he had determined to use to the utmost himself and his heritage from the personalities he had passed....
He stretched out his arms to the crystalline, radiant sky.
"I know myself," he cried, "but that is all."
Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist — a master — and that is what Auguste Rodin was — can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is… and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be…. and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply imprisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart…. no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn't matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired — but it does to them. Look at her!
Now here we have another emotional symbol — wrought with exquisite craftsmanship, but we won't go into that, yet. Ben, for almost three thousand years or longer, architects have designed buildings with columns shaped as female figures — it got to be such a habit that they did it as casually as a small boy steps on an ant. After all those centuries it took Rodin to see that this was work too heavy for a girl. But he didn't simply say, 'Look, you jerks, if you must design this way, make it a brawny male figure.' No, he showed it… and generalized the symbol. Here is this poor little caryatid who has tried — and failed, fallen under the load. She's a good girl — look at her face. Serious, unhappy at her failure, but not blaming anyone else, not even the gods… and still trying to shoulder her load, after she's crumpled under it. But she's more than good art denouncing some very bad art; she's a symbol for every woman who has ever tried to shoulder a load that was too heavy for her — over half the female population of this planet, living and dead, I would guess. But not alone women — this symbol is sexless. It means every man and every woman who ever lived who sweated out life in uncomplaining fortitude, whose courage wasn't even noticed until they crumpled under their loads. It's courage, Ben, and victory. Victory in defeat, there is none higher. She didn't give up, Ben; she's still trying to lift that stone after it has crushed her. She's a father going down to a dull office job while cancer is painfully eating away his insides, so as to bring home one more pay check for the kids. She's a twelve-year-old girl trying to mother her baby brothers and sisters because Mama had to go to Heaven. She's a switchboard operator sticking to her job while smoke is choking her and the fire is cutting off her escape. She's all the unsung heroes who couldn't quite cut it but never quit.
Someone already mentioned and quoted One Hundred Years of Solitude, but I figure it deserves a little more.
The last parts of the last paragraph were really powerful to me, even though they may not make sense if you haven't read the book at all.
Macondo was already a fearful whirlwind of dust and rubble being spun about by the wrath of the biblical hurricane when Aureliano skipped eleven pages so as not to lose time with facts he knew only too well, and he began to decipher the instant that he was living, deciphering it as he lived it, prophesying himself in the act of deciphering the last page of the parchments, as if he were looking into a speaking mirror. Then he skipped again to anticipate the predictions and ascertain the date and circumstances of his death. Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.
Hip has flourished in periods when it is needed, always corresponding with wrinkles in the economy and technology. These flash points comprise six convergences of hip. The first hip convergence, in the 19th century, produced black and white Americans' first responses to each other and their lives together: the blackface minstrel show, which looked in one direction, and the blues, which looked in the other. During this period Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Walt Whitman and Herman Melville, in a brief flurry from 1850 to 1855, laid out the formal groundwork for hip. They are hip's O.G.'s, or original gangstas. No skater, raver, indie-rocker, thug, Pabst Blue Ribbon drinker or wi-fi slacker today acts without their permission.
The 1910s and 1920s brought the second hip convergence, as populations moved from country to city. Blacks migrated north, Jews emigrated from Europe, writers split for Paris, and the radio and fledgling record industry brought rhythm to the masses. Hip percolated through a radical, gynocentric bohemia in Greenwich Village, the Harlem Renaissance uptown and the Lost Generation in exile. The third hip convergence, after World War II, saw the parallel emergence of bebop and the Beat generation, two intellectual movements that rejected the mainstream in search of grace and beatitude. This was hip's golden age, and the template for the counterculture of the following decade.
The urban collapse of the 1970s, which hollowed out inner-city neighborhoods like the East Village and the South Bronx, bred the fourth hip convergence, which filled the vacant spaces with do-it-yourself, or DIY, media: punk, hip-hop music, graffiti, break dancing, skateboarding, and the zine explosion. The fifth convergence tapped into the silicon velocity of the Internet, which moved language, money, information and enlightenment around the world at the click of a mouse. William Gibson's 1984 "Neuromancer" was the founding document; "Wired" magazine was the cheerleading tip sheet. Turntablists and remixers were the rock stars.
The sixth convergence is now.
From our perch in the early 21st century, when multinational corporations hoover anything remotely hip, it is easy to forget how hostile the climate for hip once was. The church, the law, capital and mass opinion all lined up against hip, as against a disease. Voices of authority took pains to be corny. Athletes, celebrities, politicians, war heroes and civic leaders all presented their rectitude- literally, their squareness- as a bulwark against hip's sinuous slink. People who smoked a joint or loved out of hetero wedlock were labeled dope fiends or sex fiends; rhythm was once considered a threat to civilization. Police narco units of the 1950s specialized in tossing jazz musicians. To be a hipster was to be labeled a hoodlum, hooligan, faggot, n***er-lover, troublemaker, derelict, slut, commie, dropout, freak. When America had a center, hip was outside of it.
Needless to say, this has changed. What used to be radical- putting off marriage, taking drugs to feel better, living by creativity, traveling from town to town, seeking sensory intoxication- now everyone lives that way. The end of the Cold War favored commercial values over ideological ones, and for these, hip simply accelerates the pace of the market. Iggy Pop, William Burroughs and Miles Davis, once scourges of civilization, are now evoked to move merch. Suburban honor students rock full-sleeve cholo tattoos and talk like hip-hop gangstas, and global conglomerates fight over the rapper 50 Cent, who boasts a past as a drug dealer and shows off the bullet wounds to prove it. Wearing your jeans a certain way once signaled your rejection of mainstream materialism. Now, Levi's borrows the pants off a Williamsburg lizard named Troy Pierce, worn for a year and washed only twice, so the company can clone his life and sell it. Once opposed to mainstream values, hip now seems merely a step ahead of them. It is taken for granted that was is hip today will be mass tomorrow.
In this environment, who can be hip? Taking the long view, hip is exactly what it has always been: an undercurrent of enlightenment, organized around contradictions and anxieties. Hip's trendiness has always been a by-product, not a goal. Hip is not simply the sum of What's Hot Now. In a country that resisted the class hierarchies of Europe, hip offers an alternate status system, independent of money or bloodline. The cultural anxieties that produced it have moved but not diminished. The syntheses now are global rather than local; information is overwhelming rather than pinched. Hepi or hipi, to see or open one's eyes, is as essential for negotiating 21st-century America as 19th or 20th. If the shelf life for trends or slang has shortened, the premium on knowledge is greater than ever. In a society run on information, hip is all there is.
Agreed. One of my all-time favorites is the encounter between Teppic and the Sphinx in Pyramids (spoilered for OMG LONG):
'What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?' said the Sphinx smugly.
Teppic considered this.
'That's a tough one,' he said, eventually.
'The toughest,' said the Sphinx.
'Um.'
'You'll never get it.'
'Ah,' said Teppic.
'Could you take your clothes off while you're thinking? The threads play merry hell with my teeth.'
'There isn't some kind of animal that regrows legs that have been--'
'Entirely the wrong track,' said the Sphinx, stretching its claws.
'Oh.'
'You haven't got the faintest idea, have you?'
'I'm still thinking,' said Teppic.
'You'll never get it.'
'You're right.' Teppic stared at the claws. This isn't really a fighting animal, he told himself reassuringly, it's definitely over-endowed. Besides, its bosom will get in the way, even if its brain doesn't.
'The answer is: "A Man",' said the Sphinx. 'Now, don't put up a fight, please, it releases unpleasant chemicals into the bloodstream.'
Teppic backed away from a slashing paw. 'Hold on, hold on,' he said. 'What do you mean, a man?'
'It's easy,' said the Sphinx. 'A baby crawls in the morning, stands on both legs at noon, and at evening an old man walks with a stick. Good, isn't it?'
Teppic bit his lip. 'We're talking about one day here?' he said doubtfully.
There was a long, embarrassing silence.
'It's a wossname, a figure of speech,' said the Sphinx irritably, making another lunge.
'No, no, look, wait a minute,' said Teppic. 'I'd like us to be very clear about this, right? I mean, it's only fair, right?'
'Nothing wrong with the riddle,' said the Sphinx. 'Damn good riddle. Had that riddle for fifty years, sphinx and cub.' It thought about this. 'Chick,' it corrected.
'It's a good riddle,' Teppic said soothingly. 'Very deep. Very moving. The whole human condition in a nutshell. But you've got to admit, this doesn't all happen to one individual in one day, does it?'
'Well. No,' the Sphinx admitted. 'But that is self-evident from the context. An element of dramatic analogy is present in all riddles,' it added, with the air of one who had heard the phrase a long time ago and rather liked it, although not to the extent of failing to eat the originator.
'Yes, but,' said Teppic crouching down and brushing a clear space on the damp sand, 'is there internal consistency within the metaphor? Let's say for example that the average life expectancy is seventy years, okay?'
'Okay,' said the Sphinx, in the uncertain tones of someone who has let the salesman in and is now regretfully contemplating a future in which they are undoubtedly going to buy life insurance.
'Right. Good. So noon would be age 35, am I right? Now considering that most children can toddle at a year or so, the four legs reference is really unsuitable, wouldn't you agree? I mean, most of the morning is spent on two legs. According to your analogy,' he paused and did a few calculations with a convenient thighbone, 'only about twenty minutes immediately after 00.00 hours, half an hour tops, is spent on four legs. Am I right? Be fair.'
'Well--' said the Sphinx.
'By the same token you wouldn't be using a stick by six p.m. because you'd be only, er, 52,' said Teppic, scribbling furiously. 'In fact you wouldn't really be looking at any kind of walking aid until at least half past nine, I think. That's on the assumption that the entire lifespan takes place over one day which is, I believe I have already pointed out, ridiculous. I'm sorry, it's basically okay, but it doesn't work.'
'Well,' said the Sphinx, but irritably this time, 'I don't see what I can do about it. I haven't got any more. It's the only one I've ever needed.'
'You just need to alter it a bit, that's all.'
'How do you mean?'
'Just make it a bit more realistic.'
'Hmm.' The Sphinx scratched its mane with a claw. 'Okay,' it said doubtfully. 'I suppose I could ask: What is it that walks on four legs'
'Metaphorically speaking,' said Teppic.
'Four legs, metaphorically speaking,' the Sphinx agreed, 'for about--'
'Twenty minutes, I think we agreed.'
'Okay, fine, twenty minutes in the morning, on two legs--'
'But I think calling it in "the morning" is stretching it a bit,' said Teppic. 'It's just after midnight. I mean, technically it's the morning, but in a very real sense it's still last night, what do you think?'
A look of glazed panic crossed the Sphinx's face.
'What do you think?' it managed.
'Let's just see where we've got to, shall we? What, metaphorically speaking, walks on four legs just after midnight, on two legs for most of the day--'
'Barring accidents,' said the Sphinx, pathetically eager to show that it was making a contribution.
'Fine, on two legs barring accidents, until at least suppertime, when it walks with three legs--'
'I've known people use two walking sticks,' said the Sphinx helpfully.
'Okay. How about: when it continues to walk on two legs or with any prosthetic aids of its choice?'
The Sphinx gave this some consideration.
'Ye-ess,' it said gravely. 'That seems to fit all eventualities.'
'Well?' said Teppic.
'Well what?' said the Sphinx.
'Well, what's the answer?'
The Sphinx gave him a stony look, and then showed its fangs.
'Oh no,' it said. 'You don't catch me out like that. You think I'm stupid? You've got to tell me the answer.'
'Oh, blow,' said Teppic.
'Thought you had me there, didn't you?' said the Sphinx.
'Sorry.'
'You thought you could get me all confused, did you?' The Sphinx grinned.
'It was worth a try,' said Teppic.
'Can't blame you. So what's the answer, then?'
Teppic scratched his nose.
'Haven't a clue,' he said. 'Unless, and this is a shot in the dark, you understand, it's: A Man.'
The Sphinx glared at him.
'You've been here before, haven't you?' it said accusingly.
'No.'
'Then someone's been talking, right?'
'Who could have talked? Has anyone ever guessed the riddle?' said Teppic.
'No!'
'Well, then. They couldn't have talked, could they?'
The Sphinx's claws scrabbled irritably on its rock.
'I suppose you'd better move along then,' it grumbled.
'Thank you,' said Teppic.
'I'd be grateful if you didn't tell anyone, please,' added the Sphinx, coldly. 'I wouldn't like to spoil it for other people.'
That's all of it I could find online; I would liked to have included the bit concerning the angry yell the Sphinx makes after it figures it out -- long after Teppic has left.
"Let's just say that if complete and utter chaos was lightning, he'd the kind to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour screaming 'All gods are bastards'."
Not particularly insightful, but a wonderful turn of phrase that clued me in to just what kind of writer would think it up. But what I love about the books is how much they are the wisdom of Mr. Pratchett, not just the wit.
The best way to describe Mr. Windling would be like this:
you are at a meeting. You'd like to be away early. So would everyone else. There really isn't very much to discuss anyway. And just as everyone can see Any Other Business coming over the horizon and is already putting their papers neatly together, a voice says "If I can raise a minor matter, Mr Chairman..." and with a horrible wooden feeling in your stomach you know, now, that the evening will go on for twice as long with much reference back to the minutes of earlier meetings. The man who has just said that, and is now sitting there with a smug smile of dedication to the committee process, is as near Mr Windling as makes no difference. And something that distinguishes the Mr Windlings of the universe is the term 'in my humble opinion', which they think adds weight to their statements rather than indicating, in reality, 'these are the mean little views of someone with the social grace of duckweed'.
The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.
Take boots, for exmaple. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of okay for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.
But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.
This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socio-economic unfairness.
There are a dozen others I would like to put forward, but I want to keep this short.
I know a lot of people dislike it, and I agree that the 2nd half of the series is mostly trash, but I'm re-reading the Dark Tower series now (about halfway through Drawing of the Three) and I'm amazed at some of the descriptive passages. If there's one thing Stephen King is good at, it's picturing and describing a world. Also (spoilers for the whole series)
If you re-read the series after you know the ending, it's very clear that King knew how he was going to end it. there are so many references, especially in the Gunslinger, that are much more revealing the second time through. That second or third paragraph where Roland is describing the spell of dizziness that took him right as the book begins gave me chills when I realized he had just gotten back from the Dark Tower for the umpteenth time. I really wish we could figure out what happened when he made it back with the Horn of Eld, but I think it's better that King left it open for the reader to fill in.
Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.
Posts
/me chokes up a bit.
Yeah, that part always gets to me for some reason.
The second and likely more important aspect of this passage is the directions thing. Aldous Huxley, apparently, was fairly knowledgeable of Buddhism (read Island by Aldous Huxley to see clearer evidence of this). In Buddhism, there's a story that Siddhartha Gautama took seven steps in each cardinal direction and then announced that he would not be born again, indicating that he would find enlightenment. I think the compass thing echoes this story. Mr. Savage realised that nowhere in this "brave new world" could he find "enlightenment". Everyone is clinging firmly to the material world and Mr. Savage decides to escape this world by killing himself. In a sense, he found enlightenment from the ills and materialism of the world by hanging himself.
it also had some christian undertones with the flaggelating followed by killing himself
Well, you're wrong.
No, I'm kidding. That's probably also a a decent way of looking at it too.
Games: Ad Astra Per Phalla | Choose Your Own Phalla
I got chills when I read this - a man so consciously transforming himself from the good Dr. Jekyll into a conniving and hateful Hyde.
Games: Ad Astra Per Phalla | Choose Your Own Phalla
that's why we call it the struggle, you're supposed to sweat
So you got Lord of the Rings'd. I've always felt that way about Tolkien's works...he pretty much created the fantasy genre, but by the time I read them I couldn't help but think, "Man, this is pretty fucking unoriginal". (Granted, this was before I knew how old it was, as I was only about 10 or so, but that feeling has stuck with me, and I've never really been able to enjoy him as a writer)
Now this above quote makes no sense devoid of context so don't read it if you haven't read the novel, but it is absolutely made of win.
Also there needs to be a word for what Vincent said, it happens a lot.
It might not work all that well out of context, though. Death is practically a character in its own right in this book.
The ending of Wise Blood is great as well.
I don't know if this counts, but the simple language and the sketching in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions get me.
The sort of beaver which excited news photographers so much looked like this:
This was where babies come from.
Episode 17, Ithica, of Ulysses fascinates me. The way Joyce dissects that bit of time in which Stephen and Bloom visit in Bloom's abode is incredible. No stone is left unturned.
The entirety of Crime and Punishment was excellent, too. Y'all have good taste.
Yeah, that's what I love about Vonnegut. He packs the sublime into the simplest language. It's almost like he's talking to us like we are three, but instead of being insulted, I feel like I'm hearing Big Things from a wise old guy who likes me a lot.
Yeah, I tried to come up with a better way to cut it up, but I couldn't really (and actually posting the last four pages seemed excessive.) So I just sniped my favorite parts. The whole end of the novel has a fantastic energy to it.
that's why we call it the struggle, you're supposed to sweat
My history teacher (from Junior year) read that book in it's entirety at my graduation.
For truth.
Protip: When your entire plot is built around a series of deus ex machinae, you might want to rethink it. However I did appreciate how Brave New World features basically a far-left dystopia as opposed to 1984's far-right dystopia.
And while we're on the subject of Vonnegut, I thought I'd post a couple of my favorites(both from Slaughterhouse Five).
My favorite passage(minor spoilers):
I read this first without unspoilering it and went "Holy god he read all of American Gods at your graduation?"
Hell, let's start this page off with a couple Fitzgerald passages.
Here are Jubal Harshaw's little rambles about art. I love it.
The last parts of the last paragraph were really powerful to me, even though they may not make sense if you haven't read the book at all.
Agreed. One of my all-time favorites is the encounter between Teppic and the Sphinx in Pyramids (spoilered for OMG LONG):
Teppic considered this.
'That's a tough one,' he said, eventually.
'The toughest,' said the Sphinx.
'Um.'
'You'll never get it.'
'Ah,' said Teppic.
'Could you take your clothes off while you're thinking? The threads play merry hell with my teeth.'
'There isn't some kind of animal that regrows legs that have been--'
'Entirely the wrong track,' said the Sphinx, stretching its claws.
'Oh.'
'You haven't got the faintest idea, have you?'
'I'm still thinking,' said Teppic.
'You'll never get it.'
'You're right.' Teppic stared at the claws. This isn't really a fighting animal, he told himself reassuringly, it's definitely over-endowed. Besides, its bosom will get in the way, even if its brain doesn't.
'The answer is: "A Man",' said the Sphinx. 'Now, don't put up a fight, please, it releases unpleasant chemicals into the bloodstream.'
Teppic backed away from a slashing paw. 'Hold on, hold on,' he said. 'What do you mean, a man?'
'It's easy,' said the Sphinx. 'A baby crawls in the morning, stands on both legs at noon, and at evening an old man walks with a stick. Good, isn't it?'
Teppic bit his lip. 'We're talking about one day here?' he said doubtfully.
There was a long, embarrassing silence.
'It's a wossname, a figure of speech,' said the Sphinx irritably, making another lunge.
'No, no, look, wait a minute,' said Teppic. 'I'd like us to be very clear about this, right? I mean, it's only fair, right?'
'Nothing wrong with the riddle,' said the Sphinx. 'Damn good riddle. Had that riddle for fifty years, sphinx and cub.' It thought about this. 'Chick,' it corrected.
'It's a good riddle,' Teppic said soothingly. 'Very deep. Very moving. The whole human condition in a nutshell. But you've got to admit, this doesn't all happen to one individual in one day, does it?'
'Well. No,' the Sphinx admitted. 'But that is self-evident from the context. An element of dramatic analogy is present in all riddles,' it added, with the air of one who had heard the phrase a long time ago and rather liked it, although not to the extent of failing to eat the originator.
'Yes, but,' said Teppic crouching down and brushing a clear space on the damp sand, 'is there internal consistency within the metaphor? Let's say for example that the average life expectancy is seventy years, okay?'
'Okay,' said the Sphinx, in the uncertain tones of someone who has let the salesman in and is now regretfully contemplating a future in which they are undoubtedly going to buy life insurance.
'Right. Good. So noon would be age 35, am I right? Now considering that most children can toddle at a year or so, the four legs reference is really unsuitable, wouldn't you agree? I mean, most of the morning is spent on two legs. According to your analogy,' he paused and did a few calculations with a convenient thighbone, 'only about twenty minutes immediately after 00.00 hours, half an hour tops, is spent on four legs. Am I right? Be fair.'
'Well--' said the Sphinx.
'By the same token you wouldn't be using a stick by six p.m. because you'd be only, er, 52,' said Teppic, scribbling furiously. 'In fact you wouldn't really be looking at any kind of walking aid until at least half past nine, I think. That's on the assumption that the entire lifespan takes place over one day which is, I believe I have already pointed out, ridiculous. I'm sorry, it's basically okay, but it doesn't work.'
'Well,' said the Sphinx, but irritably this time, 'I don't see what I can do about it. I haven't got any more. It's the only one I've ever needed.'
'You just need to alter it a bit, that's all.'
'How do you mean?'
'Just make it a bit more realistic.'
'Hmm.' The Sphinx scratched its mane with a claw. 'Okay,' it said doubtfully. 'I suppose I could ask: What is it that walks on four legs'
'Metaphorically speaking,' said Teppic.
'Four legs, metaphorically speaking,' the Sphinx agreed, 'for about--'
'Twenty minutes, I think we agreed.'
'Okay, fine, twenty minutes in the morning, on two legs--'
'But I think calling it in "the morning" is stretching it a bit,' said Teppic. 'It's just after midnight. I mean, technically it's the morning, but in a very real sense it's still last night, what do you think?'
A look of glazed panic crossed the Sphinx's face.
'What do you think?' it managed.
'Let's just see where we've got to, shall we? What, metaphorically speaking, walks on four legs just after midnight, on two legs for most of the day--'
'Barring accidents,' said the Sphinx, pathetically eager to show that it was making a contribution.
'Fine, on two legs barring accidents, until at least suppertime, when it walks with three legs--'
'I've known people use two walking sticks,' said the Sphinx helpfully.
'Okay. How about: when it continues to walk on two legs or with any prosthetic aids of its choice?'
The Sphinx gave this some consideration.
'Ye-ess,' it said gravely. 'That seems to fit all eventualities.'
'Well?' said Teppic.
'Well what?' said the Sphinx.
'Well, what's the answer?'
The Sphinx gave him a stony look, and then showed its fangs.
'Oh no,' it said. 'You don't catch me out like that. You think I'm stupid? You've got to tell me the answer.'
'Oh, blow,' said Teppic.
'Thought you had me there, didn't you?' said the Sphinx.
'Sorry.'
'You thought you could get me all confused, did you?' The Sphinx grinned.
'It was worth a try,' said Teppic.
'Can't blame you. So what's the answer, then?'
Teppic scratched his nose.
'Haven't a clue,' he said. 'Unless, and this is a shot in the dark, you understand, it's: A Man.'
The Sphinx glared at him.
'You've been here before, haven't you?' it said accusingly.
'No.'
'Then someone's been talking, right?'
'Who could have talked? Has anyone ever guessed the riddle?' said Teppic.
'No!'
'Well, then. They couldn't have talked, could they?'
The Sphinx's claws scrabbled irritably on its rock.
'I suppose you'd better move along then,' it grumbled.
'Thank you,' said Teppic.
'I'd be grateful if you didn't tell anyone, please,' added the Sphinx, coldly. 'I wouldn't like to spoil it for other people.'
That's all of it I could find online; I would liked to have included the bit concerning the angry yell the Sphinx makes after it figures it out -- long after Teppic has left.
Recently I have been reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel. Two bits in particular stand out as especially noteworthy:
Also II Samuel 11 and Judges 5.
Edit: Oh, also the last paragraph of the first book of Patricia McKillip's Riddlemaster trilogy: Best cliffhanger ever.
Not particularly insightful, but a wonderful turn of phrase that clued me in to just what kind of writer would think it up. But what I love about the books is how much they are the wisdom of Mr. Pratchett, not just the wit.
There are a dozen others I would like to put forward, but I want to keep this short.
Also,
I'm sure there's more but I don't have the book.