Shrines of Gaiety

Some people were complete in themselves, as if born from the earth or the ocean, like some of the gods. Which was not a compliment. The gods were ruthlessly indifferent to humanity.

Gossip,” Mr. Pollock called it dismissively, but Gwendolen thought that was the word men gave to women’s conversation. Men talked in order to convey information or to ruminate on cricket scores and campaign statistics. Women, on the other hand, talked in an effort to understand the foibles of human behaviour. If men were to “gossip,” the world might be a better place. There would certainly be fewer wars.

The library had not been a career choice. After all, who would choose to be a librarian?

He brought her a cup of tea, the first and last resource of an English husband.

Women, he sneered, what are they good for? Laundry and fucking. Ramsay wondered if Gerrit had actually met Nellie. His mother seemed good for neither of those activities, but then Nellie wasn’t really a woman, she was an element, like iron.

There was nothing wrong with having a good time as long as she didn't have to have one herself.

Gwendolen’s mother had been a foolish woman, inclined to believe any passing nonsense. Of such people were patriots made, in Gwendolen’s opinion. More’s the pity.

His head was always in the clouds. 'I'm writing a novel,' he told her. As if that was something to crow about. As if there weren't enough novels in the world already.

Perhaps, after all, one's purpose in this world was to be forgotten, not remembered.

Life was for absorbing, not recording.

Gossip’, Mr Pollock called it dismissively, but Gwendolen thought that was the word men gave to women’s conversation. Men talked in order to convey information or to ruminate on cricket scores and campaign statistics. Women, on the other hand, talked in an effort to understand the foibles of human behaviour. If men were to ‘gossip’, the world might be a better place. There would certainly be fewer wars.

He no longer had the patience for people’s foibles. No patience for people at all. No time for religion, no time for scruples, no time for feelings. Niven’s heart appeared adamantine, fired in the crucible of the war.

A sin of omission, not commission.

Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone. Perhaps, after all, one’s purpose in this world was to be forgotten, not remembered.

Though She Be but Little She Is Fierce

He is inviting your mother to meet him tomorrow. For afternoon tea." Niven barked with laughter. "Afternoon tea? He certainly does sound bad, Emin." "She should watch her back, effendim." "My mother is nothing but back, Emin.

Freda was not going to work in Rowntrees! She was going to be a star! She was going to be famous! She was going to go to London! She would rather die of a surfeit of exclamation marks before she worked in an office or factory!

Vanda had "lost her man" early in the war. Freda thought he must have been killed in battle, but Duncan said he'd run off to Barnsley with a barmaid. "Alliterative adultery," he said. "Big word," Vanda said. "Which one?" Duncan said.

The three eldest girls were the crack troops of the family. Betty and Shirley had both gone to Cambridge. "Wear their learning lightly," Nellie said proudly to prospective suitors. ("Hardly wear it at all," Niven said.)

It never ceased to surprise the Cokers how willing nightclub patrons were to pitch in behind the scenes. For the novelty of it, rather than altruism. They loved a disaster.

It was undignified to be on show like this. That was the thing about hospitals, anyone could wander into your room and gawp at you when you were at your very lowest, your most unflattering.

A woman in her sixth decade, dressed in everyday drab, is more invisible than a librarian.

See you later, pet. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t!,” which gave Freda a pretty broad canvas to work on.

The river this morning was brown and sluggish with a never-ending flotilla of barges and boats, the commerce of the city. No lilacs here. No scent of a hay meadow or of a stand of lime trees, only the stink of a noxious city. Frobisher felt his soul shrivel.

Freda knew that she could tell Cissy about Mr. Birdwhistle’s lewd approaches, but she was used to being blamed for the bad behaviour of others and suspected it would be no different in the case of the octopus’s wandering tentacles.

Freda had overheard Cissy telling Gladys that Freda was “a show-off brat.” She had been wounded by her sister’s judgement on her character. I am not a brat, merely unusually confident, she thought,

Gwendolen was so touched that she wept, but quietly, for her mother would have been monstrously jealous of such emotion. She had claimed grief for her own long ago.

Gwendolyn's mother had been a foolish woman, inclined to believe any passing nonsense. Of such people were patriots made, in Gwendolyn's opinion. More's the pity.

They had stepped into marriage in a frail barque that had long ago entered the doldrums and floundered in the deep. Miss Kelling, on the other hand, looked like someone who would steer a steady course. He had entangled his mind horribly in seafaring imagery, there seemed no way out of it except to abandon ship.