“He hated to think of his own life stretching ahead of him that way, a long succession of days and nights that were fine - not good, not bad, not great, not lousy, not exciting, not anything.”
“Cities fell. Earth opened. Planets tilted. Stars plummeted. And the awful silence.”
“Do I dare disturb the universe?
Yes, I do, I do. I think.
Jerry suddenly understood the poster--the solitary man on the beach standing upright and alone and unafraid, poised at the moment of making himself heard and known in the world, the universe.”
“They don't actually want you to do your own thing, not unless it's their thing too.”
“A new sickness invaded Jerry, the sickness of knowing what he had become, another animal, another beast, another violent person in a violent world, inflicting damage, not disturbing the universe but damaging it.”
“Don't miss the bus, boy. You're missing a lot of things in the world, better not miss that bus.”
“They tell you to do your own thing but they don't mean it. They don't want you to do your thing, not unless it happens to be their thing, too.”
“And he did see--that life was rotten, that there were no heroes, really, and that you couldn't trust anybody, not even yourself.”
“He was swept with a sadness, a sadness deep and penetrating, leaving him desolate like someone washed up on a beach, a lone survivor in a world full of strangers.”
“There was nothing more beautiful in the world than the sight of a teacher getting upset.”
“It doesn't matter how big the body, it's what you do with it.”
“Often he rose early in the morning, before anyone else, and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets, and everything seemed beautiful, everything in its proper orbit, nothing impossible, the entire world attainable.”
“Why did the wise guys always accuse other people of being wise guys?”
“You see Carter, people are two things: greedy and cruel. So we have a perfect set-up here. The greed part - a kid pays a buck for a chance to win a hundred. Plus fifty boxes of chocolates. The cruel part - watching two guys hitting each other, maybe hurting each other, while they're safe in the bleachers. That's why it works, Carter, because we're all bastards.”
“Archie became absolutely still, afraid that the rapid beating of his heart might betray his sudden knowledge, the proof of what he'd always suspected, not only of Brother Leon but most grownups, most adults: they were vulnerable, running scared, open to invasion.”
“A terrific sadness swept over Jerry. As if somebody had died. The way he felt standing in the cemetry that day they buried his mother. And nothing you could do about it.”
“What could he say? After the phone calls and the beating. After the desecration of his locker. The silent treatment. Pushed downstairs. What they did to Goober, to Brother Eugene. What guys like Archie and Janza did to the school. What they would do to the world when they left Trinity.”
“That's what Archie did - built a house nobody could anticipate a need for, except himself, a house that was invisible to everyone else.”
“Do I dare disturb the universe? Yes I do, I do. I think.”
“When he ran, he even loved the pain, the hurt of the running, the burning in his lungs and the spasms that sometimes gripped his calves. He loved it because he knew he could endure the pain, and even go beyond it. He had never pushed himself to the limit but he felt all this reserve strength inside of him: more than strength actually—determination. And it sang in him as he ran, his heart pumping blood joyfully through his body.”
“He closed the locker quickly so no one would see the damage. For some reason, he felt ashamed.”
“The Goober was beautiful when he ran. His long arms and legs moved flowingly and flawlessly, his body floating as if his feet weren’t touching the ground. When he ran, he forgot about his acne and his awkwardness and the shyness that paralyzed him when a girl looked his way. Even his thoughts became sharper, and things were simple and uncomplicated—he could solve math problems when he ran or memorize football play patterns. Often he rose early in the morning, before anyone else, and poured himself liquid through the sunrise streets, and everything seemed beautiful, everything in its proper orbit, nothing impossible, the entire world attainable.
When he ran, he even loved the pain, the hurt of the running, the burning in his lungs and the spasms that sometimes gripped his calves. He loved it because he knew he could endure the pain, and even go beyond it. He had never pushed himself to the limit but he felt all this reserve strength inside of him: more than strength actually—determination. And it sang in him as he ran, his heart pumping blood joyfully through his body.”
“Go get your bus, square boy.”
“Was this all there was to life, after all? You finished school, found an occupation, got married, became a father, watched your wife die, and then lived through days and nights that seemed to have no sunrises, no dawns and no dusks, nothing but a gray drabness.”
“Archie believed in always doing the smart thing. Not the thing you ached to do, not the impulsive act, but the thing that would pay off later.”
“Внизу плакатика стояла надпись: Осмелюсь ли я потревожить вселенную? Слова Элиота — автора «Бесплодной земли», которую они проходили по литературе. [...]
— Все будет хорошо, Джерри.
Нет, не будет. Он узнал голос Стручка, и ему важно было поделиться со Стручком своим открытием. Он должен был сказать Стручку: бери мяч, играй в футбол, бегай, вступай в команду, продавай конфеты, продавай все, что тебе велят, делай все, чего от тебя хотят. Он пытался произнести эти слова, но что-то было не так с его ртом, зубами, лицом. Но он все равно старался, очень старался сказать Стручку то, что ему надо было знать. Тебе говорят: поступай как считаешь нужным, делай свое дело, но они врут. Никто не хочет, чтобы ты делал свое дело, если, конечно, твои желания случайно не совпадают с их интересами. Все это шутка, Стручок, обман. Не тревожь вселенную. Стручок, не верь никаким плакатам.”
“He was afraid that his body would come loose, all his bones spilling out like a building collapsing, like a picket fence clattering apart.”
“We just might make a quarterback out of you yet, you skinny little son of a bitch.”
“You’re a wonderful dancer, Ria.”
“Mademoiselle Geraldine’s takes such things seriously.”
“Ah. And how many ways do you know to kill me, while we dance?”
“Only two, but give me time.”
“You have lovely eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“What rot. They are a muddy green. What are you about, Lord Mersey?”
Felix sighed, looking genuinely perturbed. His air of ennui was shaken. “I am trying to court you. Truth be told, Miss Temminnick, you make it ruddy difficult!”
“Language, Lord Mersey.” Sophronia felt her heart flutter strangely. Am I ready to be courted?
“See!”
“Can we go look for beers?”
“Suddenly, I developed an acute case of Tourette’s syndrome, “Fuck! That fucking-shit-son-of-an-ass-monkey-dick-weasel!”
“Not revealing the truth is lying, isn’t it, Guruji?’ ‘No, it isn’t. Sometimes, truth causes pain and suffering. At such times, silence is preferred. In fact, there may be times when a white lie, or even an outright lie, could actually lead to a good outcome.”
“The thing is to take your life in your hands.”
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