“Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.”
“All the world is made of music. We are all strings on a lyre. We resonate. We sing together.”
“He had tried to explain the way he felt to Danny once, about compulsive behavior and time rushing too fast and the Internet and drugs. Danny had only lifted one of his slender, mobile eyebrows and stared at him in smirking confusion. Danny did not think coke and computers were anything alike. But Jude had seen the way people hunched over their screens, clicking the refresh button again and again, waiting for some crucial if meaningless hit of information, and he thought it was almost exactly the same.”
“You want sympathy, go fuck James Taylor.”
“The mad sometimes drilled holes in their own heads to let the demons out. To relieve the pressure of thoughts they could no longer bear. Jude understood the impulse. Each beat of his heart was a fresh and staggering blow felt in the nerves behind his eyes and in his temples. Punishing evidence of life.”
“If you didn't have me to rake you over the coals now and then, there wouldn't be any fire in your life at all.”
“If hell was anything, it was talk radio — and family.”
“That was one thing you found out when you were stoned, or wasted, or feverish: that the world was always turning and that only a healthy mind could block out the sickening whirl of it.”
“When you were a Goth, it was important to at least imply the possibility you might burst into flames in direct sunlight.”
“He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places. If he wanted to take a shot at it, he’d have to turn the barrel against his own temple.”
“I feel bad for her. It's not a lot of fun, you know."
"What?"
"Being in love with you. I've been with a lot of bad guys who made me feel lousy about myself, Jude, but you're something special. Because I knew none of them really cared about me, but you do, and you make me feel like your shitty hooker anyway.”
“I miss you, Jude. I'm looking forward to putting my arms around you. We're going to sing just like the old days. Everyone sings here. After a while it kind of sounds like screaming. Just listen. Listen and you can hear them screaming.”
“Prison didn't frighten him especially. He had a lot of fans in there.”
“I’ve always thought that when something really bad happens to a person, other people just have to know about it. You can’t be a tree falling in the woods with no one to hear you crash.”
“She’d done things to him he thought only happened to characters in country-western songs, laying waste to his car, his dogs, driving him from his home, and making an outlaw of him. It was almost funny.”
“The dead win when you quit singing and let them take you on down the road with them.”
“A lot of his songs, when they started out, sounded like old music. They arrived on his doorstep, wandering orphans, the lost children of large and venerable musical families. They came to him in the form of Tin Pan Alley sing-alongs, honky-tonk blues, Dust Bowl plaints, lost Chuck Berry riffs. Jude dressed them in black and taught them to scream.”
“He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places.”
“It was hard to venture back near the place you’d been bred without settling into the characteristics of the person you’d been there.”
“The dead pull the living down.”
“He had always known he would go out this way: on fire. He had always known that rage was flammable, dangerous to store under pressure, where he had kept it his whole life.”
“Jude wondered if the chip was smart enough to tell the difference between a dog and a naked psychotic scrambling around on all fours with a knife in his teeth.”
“His father had smashed his very first guitar for him, in an early attempt to rid Jude of his musical ambitions. Jude hadn’t been able to repeat the act himself, not even onstage, for show, when he could afford all the guitars he wanted. He was, however, perfectly willing to use one as a weapon to defend himself. In a sense he supposed he had always used them as weapons.”
“Джуд подозираше, че в действителност Дани няма никакви музикални предпочитания и радиото е просто за фон, нещо като звуков еквивалент на тапетите.”
“Why do you got to ask so many damn questions?” he wanted to know. As they went back out into the rain, he opened his black duster and closed it over her thin, shivering body, clasped her against him. “I’d rather ask questions,” she said, “than answer them.”
“When he was on the road, or recording, he had become accustomed to rolling into bed at five in the morning and sleeping through most of the daylight hours, but staying up all night had never come naturally. On the road, he would wake at four in the afternoon, bad-tempered and headachy, confused about where the time had gone. Everyone he knew would seem to him clever imposters, unfeeling aliens wearing rubber skin and the faces of friends. It took a liberal quantity of alcohol to make them seem like themselves again.”
“burn it.’ Jude felt, for an instant, an almost overpowering impulse to do just that, find some lighter fluid, douse it, cook it in the driveway. It was an impulse he immediately mistrusted, wary of any irrevocable action. Who knew what bridges might be burned along with it? He felt the slightest flicker of an idea, something about the awful-smelling suit and how it might be of use, but the thought drifted away before he could fix on it. He was tired. It was hard to pin a solid thought in place. His reasons for wanting to hold on to the suit were illogical, superstitious, unclear even to himself, but when he spoke, he had a perfectly reasonable explanation for keeping it. ‘We can’t burn it. It’s evidence. My lawyer is going to want it later, if we decide to build a case against her.’ Georgia laughed, weakly, unhappily. ‘What? Assault with a deadly spirit?”
“In truth, Jude suspected that Danny had no particular musical preferences, no strong likes or dislikes, and that the radio was just background sound, the auditory equivalent of wallpaper.”
“He searched the ground floor and found only shadow and stillness, which should’ve reassured him but didn’t. It was the wrong kind of stillness, the shocked stillness that follows the bang of a cherry bomb. His eardrums throbbed from the pressure of all that quiet, a dreadful silence.”
“Et toujours ces questions si naturelles, anodines en apparence, ça marche toujours avec lui ? Est-ce que tu comptes te marier ? La désolation de mes parents devant une situation incertaine, "on aimerait bien savoir où ça va te mener tout ça". Obligé que l'amour mène quelque part. Leur peine sourde aussi. Ce serait tellement plus agréable, plus tranquille pour eux de voir se dérouler l'histoire habituelle, les faire-part dans le journal, les questions auxquelles on répond avec fierté, un jeune homme de Bordeaux, bientôt professeur, l'église, la mairie, le ménage qui se "monte", les petits-enfants. Je les prive des espérances traditionnelles. L'affolement de ma mère quand elle apprend, tu couches avec, si tu continues tu vas gâcher ta vie. Pour elle, je suis en train de me faire rouler, des tonnes de romans qui ressortent, filles séduites qu'on n'épouse pas, abandonnées avec un môme. Un combat tannant toutes les semaines entre nous deux. Je ne sais pas encore qu'au moment où l'on me pousse à liquider ma liberté, ses parents à lui jouent un scénario tout aussi traditionnel mais inverse, "tu as bien le temps d'avoir un fil à la patte, ne te laisse pas mettre le grappin dessus !", bien chouchoutée la liberté des mâles.”
“Seriously, it's okay to be sad, but if you let sadness control your life, you'll never have one.”
“To a sensitive being, pity is not seldom pain.”
“My mother didn't like to hear profanity, and she certainly never spoke it. She had always told us that swearing was the sign of a lackluster vocabulary and, worse, a stunted imagination. "There are so many interesting words to use, along or in combination," she said, "that I don't know why anyone would fall back on one-syllable obscenities.”
“It seemed to k. as if all contact with him had been cut and he was more of a free agent than ever. He could wait here, in a place usually forbidden to him, as long as he liked, and he also felt as if he gad won that freedom with more effort than most people could manage to make, and no one could touch him or drive him away, why, they hardly had a right even to adress him. But at the same time - and this feeling was at least as strong - he felt as if there were nothing more meaningless and more desperate than this freedom, this waiting, this invulnerability.”
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