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64 Cards in this Set
- Front
- Back
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The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card, -refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Then it dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; i held all beyond it in common contempt and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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He would not Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the owrld and Africa. He would not bleach his Negro soul in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both Negro and an American, without being cursed and spit upon hby his fellows, without having the doors of Opportunity closed roughtly in his face.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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After the Egyptian and Indian, the greek and roman, the Teuton and Mogolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world, - a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness- an American, a negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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Away back in the days of bondage they thought to see in one divine event the end of all doubt and disappointment; few men ever worshipped Freedom with half such unquestioning faith as did the American Negro for two centuries. To him, so far as he thought and dreamed, slavery was indeed the sum of all villainies, the cause of all sorrow, the root of all prejuidice; emancipation was the key to a promised land of sweeter beauty than ever stretched before the eyes of wearied Israelites.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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It was the ideal of "book-learning:; the curiosity, born of compulsory ignorance, to know and test the power of the cabalistic letters of the white man, the loning to know. Here at last seemed to have been discovered the moutain path to Canaan; longer than the highway of Emancipation and law, steep and rugged, but straight, leading to heights high enough to over look life.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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In those sombre forests of his striving his own soul rose before him, and he saw himself, -darkly as though a veil; and yet he saw himself some faint revelation of his power, of his mission. he began to have him a dim feeling that, to attain his place in the world, he must be himself and not another.
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The Souls of Black Folk, DuBois
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There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: 'Stetson!-
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 'You1 hypocrite lecteur! -mon semblabe,-mon frere!" |
The Wasteland, Elliot
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The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by Standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, |
The wasteland, elliot
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My nerves are bad to-night. yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. why do you never speak. spea.
'What are you thinking of? what thinking? what? I never know what you are thinking. think.' |
The wasteland, Elliot
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Hurry up please its time
if you don't like it you can get on with it, I said. others can pick and choose if you can't but if albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling. you ought to be ashamed, i said, i look so antique. (and her only thirty-one) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) |
The wasteland, elliot
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The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a we, black bought. |
In a station of the metro, Ezra Pound
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For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage, Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight Under the cabin roof was one lantern. The reeds are heavy; bent; and the bamboos speak as if weeping. |
Cantos XLIX, Ezra Pound
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No one is going to be content with a transliteration of Chinese names. When not making a desperate effort at mnemonics or differentiating in vain hope of distinguishing one race from antoher, I mainly use the french form. Our european knowledge of china has come via latin and french and at any rate the french vowels as printed have some sor tof uniform connotation.
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Cantos, Ezra Pound
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Now the grass, tomorrow
The stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf one by one objects are defined- it quickens: clarity, outline of leaf |
Spring and All, williams
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Patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines- |
Spring and all, williams
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or the ribbed north end of
Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, theives old names and promiscuity between |
To Elsie, Williams
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Sent out at fifteen to work in
some hard-pressed house in the suburbs- some doctor's family, some -- voluptuous water expressing with broken |
To Elsie, Williams
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as if the earth under our feet
were an excrement of some sky and we degraded prisoners destined to hunger until we eat filth while the imagination strains after deer going by fields of goldenrod in |
To Elsie, Williams
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Glazed with rain
water beside the white chikens |
The red Wheelbarrow, Williams
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It was black, black took
Black ink best wheel bale brown. Excellent not a hull house, not a pea soup, no bill no care, no precise no past pearl pearl goat. |
Tender Buttons, Stein
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A Mounted Umbrella
What was the use of not leaving it there where it would hang what was the use if there was no chance of ever seeing it come there and show that it was handsome and right in the way it showed it. The lesson is to learn that it does show it, that it shows it and that nothing, that there is nothing, that there is no more to do about it and just so much more is there plenty of reason for making an exchange. |
Tender Buttons, Stein
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Book was there, it was there. Book was there. Stop it, stop it, it was a cleaner, a wet cleaner and it was not where it was wet, it was not high, it was directly placed back, not back again, back it was returned, it was needless, it put a bank, a bank when, a bank care.
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Tender Buttons, Stein
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The change in that is that red weakens an hour. The change has come. There is no search.
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Tender Buttons, Stein
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The facts those men were so eager to know had been visible, tangible, open to the senses, occupying their place in space and time, requiring for their existence a fourteen-hundred-ton steamer and twenty seven minutes by the watch; they made a whole that had features, shades of expression, a complicated aspect that could be remembered by the eye, and something else besides, something invisible, a directing spirit of perdition that dwelt within, like a malevonlent soul in a detestable body.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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There was, as I walked along, the clear sunshine, a brilliance too passionate to be consoling, the streets full of jumbled bits of colour like a damaged kaleidoscope: yellow, green, blue, dazzling white, the brown nudity of an undraped shoulder, a bullock-cart with a red canpoy, a company of native infantry in a drab body with dark heads marching in dusty laced boots, a ntive policeman in a sombre uniform of scanty cut and belted in patent leather, who looked up at me with orientally pitiful eyes as though his migrating spirit were suffering exceeding from the unforseen what d'ye call 'em?
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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The Court-room was sombre, seemed more vast. High up in the dim space the punkahs were swaying short to and fro, to and fro. Here and there a draped figure, dwarfed by the bare walls, remained without stirring amongst the rows of empty benches, as if absorbed in pious meditation.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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All around everything was still as far as the ear could reach. The mist of his feelings shifted between us, as if disturbed by his struggles, and in the rifts of the immaterial veil he would appear to my staring eyes distinct of form and pregnant with vague appeal like a symbolic figure in a picture. The chill air of the night seemed to lie on my limbs as heavy as a slab of marble.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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A feeble burst of many voices mingled with the tinkle of silver and glass floated up from the dining-room below; though the open door the outer edge of the light from my candle fell on his back faintly; beyond all was black; he stood on the brink of a vast obscurity, like a lonely figure by the shore of a sombre and hopeless ocean.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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The Other three chaps that had landed with him made a little group waiting at some distance. there was a sallow-faced, mean little chap with his arm in a sling, and a long individual in a blue flannel coat, as dry as a chip and no stouter than a broomstick, with drooping grey moustaches, who looked about him with an air of jaunty imbelicity. The tird was an upstanding, broad-shouldered youth, with his hands in his pockets, turning his back on the other two who appeared to be talking together earnestly.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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But he kept his distance - he kept his distance. He wanted me to know he had kept his distance; that there was nothing in comon between him and these men- who had the hammer. Nothing wahtever. It is more than probable he thought himself cut off from them by a spacec that could not be traversed, by an obstacle that could not be overcome, by a chasm without bottom. he was as far as he could get from them- the whole breadth of the ship.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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The privileged man opened the packet, looked in, then, laying it down, went to the window. His rooms were in the highest flat of a lofty building, and his glace would ravel afar beyond the clear panes of glass, as though he were looking out of the lantern of a lighthouse. The stlopes of the roofs glistened, the dark broken ridges succeeded each other without end like sombre, uncrested waves, and from the depths of the town under his feet ascended a confused and unceasing mutter.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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I don't know so much about nonsense, but there was nothing light-hearted in their romance: they came together under the shadow of a life's disaster, like knight and maiden meeting to exchange vows amongst haunted ruins.
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Lord Jim, Conrad
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FOr having lived in Westminster-how many years now? over twnty,-one feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, -- was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense (but that might be her heart, affected, they said, by influenca) before Big Ben strikes. There1 Out it boomed.
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Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf
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She clung to his arm. They had been deserted.
But what more did she want? |
Mrs. Dalloway, Woolf (the out of body narrative is weird)
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Her voice would not cease, it would just vanish. there would be the dim coffin-smelling glooom sweet and oversweet with the twice-bloomed wistaria against the outer wall by the savage quiet september sun impacted distilled and hyperdistilled, into which came now and then the loud cloudy flutter of the sparrows like a flat limber stick whipped by an idle boy, and the rank smell of female old flesh long embattled in virginity while the wan haggard face watched him above the faint triangle of lace at wrists and throat from the too tall chair in which she resembled a crucified child; and the voice not ceasing but vanishing into and then out of the long intervals like a stream,...
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Absolom Absolom, Faulkner
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Because you are going away to attend the college at Harvard they tell me," she said. "so I don't imagine you will ever come back here and settle down as a country lawyer in a little town like Jerfferson since Northern people have already seen to it that there is little left in the south for a young man. So maybe you will enter the literary profession as so many Southern gentlemen and gentlewomen too are doing now and maybe some day you will remember this and write about it.
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Absolom Absolom, Faulkner
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It's because she wants it told he thought so that people whom she will never see and whose names she will never hear and who have never heard her name nor seen her face will read it and know at last why God let us lose the War: that only through the blood of our men and the tears of our women could He stay this demon and efface his name na dlineage from the earth.
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Aboslom Absolom, Faulkner
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HIs childhood was full of them; his very body was an empty hall echoing with sonorous defeated names; he was not a being, an entity, he was a commonwealth. He was a barracks filled with stubbor backlooking ghosts still recovering, even forty-three years afterward, from the fever which had cured the disease, waking from the fever without even knowing that it had been the fever itself which they had fought against and not the sickness, looking with stubborn recalcitrance backward beyond the fever and into the disease with actual regret, weak from the fever yet free of the disease and not even aware that the freedom was that of impotence.
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Absolom Absolom, Faulkner
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"Yes. They lead beautiful lives-women. Lives not only divorced from, but irrevocably excommunicated form, all reality. That's why although their deaths, the instant of dissolution, are of no importence to them since htey have a courage and fortittude in the face of pain and annihilation which would make the most spartan man resemble a puling boy, yet to them their funerals and graves, the little puny affirmations of spurious immortality set above their slumber, are the incalculable importance.
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Absolom Absolom, Faulkner
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We hardly ever saw him. He would be gone from dan until dark, he and Jones and another man or two that he had got from somewhere and paid with something, perhaps the same coin in which he had paid that froeign architect-cajolery, promise, threat, and at last force. That was the winter when we began to learn what carpet-bagger meant and people women-locked doors and windows at night and began to frighten each other with tales of negro uprisings, when the ruined, the four years fallow and neglected land lay more idle yet while men with pistols in their pockets gathered daily at secret meeting places in the towns.
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Absolom Absolom, Faulkner
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"I don't hate it," --, quickly, at once, immediately; "I don't hate it," he said. I don't hate it he thought, panting in the cold air, the iron New England dark: I don't. I don't! I don't hate it! I don't hate it!
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Abolom Absolom, Faulkner
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I, self-mesmered fool who still believed that what must be would be, could not but be, else I must deny sanity as well as breath, running, hurling myself into that inscrutable coffee-colored face, that cold implaceable mindless (no, not mindless: anything but mindless: his own clairvoyant will tempered to amoral evil's undeviating absolute by the black willing blood with which he had crossed it) replica of his own which he had created..
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Abosolom Absolom, Faulkner (Chiasmus)
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On Isabella when I was a child it was a disgrace to be poor. It is, alas, no longer so. And it astonished me when I first came to England to find that it wasn't so here either. I arrived at a time of reform. politicians proclaimed the meanness of their birth and the poverty of their upbringing and described themselves with virtuous rage as barefoot boys. On Isabella, where we had the genuine article in abundance, this was a common term of schoolboy abuse; and I was embarrassed on behalf of these great men. To be descended from generations of idlers and failures, an unbroken line of the unimaginative, unenterprising and oppressed, had always seemd to me be a cause for deep, silent shame.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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For Cecil childhood was the great time; he would never cease to regret its passing away. it was different with me. I could scarcely wait for my childhood to be over and done with. i have no especial hardship or deprivation to record. But childhood was for me a period of incompetence, bewilderment, solitude and shameful fantasies. it was a period of burdensome secrets - like the word 'wife', a discovery about the world which I was embarrassed to pass on to the world - and I longed for nothing so much as to walk in the clear air of adulthood and responsibility, where everything was comprehensible and I myself was an open as a book. I hated my secrets. A complying memory as obliterated many of them and edited my childhood down to a beif cinematic blur. Even this is quite sufficiently painful.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul (shame is the product of post-colonialism)
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It was then that I saw that what I had thought of as my betrayal was no longer a betrayal. School had ceased to be a private hemisphere. The outside world, which we had denied for so long, had begun to invade it; and after Browne's widely reported gesture there was no need for me to fear ridicule. To many I became what I already was on our street; the son of othe leader suddenly found. But i continued, as they say, to play both sides.
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Miminc Men, Naipaul (teacher constantly reminds them of who they are; ridicule)
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It was a double dream, thbe dream within the dream, when the dreamer, fearful for the reality of his joy, questions himself whether he is dreaming and decides he is not. i had dreamt that i was a baby again and at my mother's breast. What joy! The breast on my cheek and mouth: a consoling weight, the closeness of soft, smooth flesh. It had been at dusk, in a vague setting, no lights, in a back veranda, all around a blur of dark bush. My mother rocked and I had the freedom of her breast. A dream? But no, i was not dreaming. What pain then, what shame, to awaken!
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Mimic Men, Naipual
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It is difficult to be a lord! I sought accommodation where I ought to have imposed authority. And there was Sandra with her gift of the phrase, her North London tongue, battling where she should have succoured and consoled. I encouraged her, I am afraid, by being amused. She often spoke damaging words in public for my benefit alone.
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Mimic Men, Naipual
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My own name was Ranjit; and my birth certificate said I was Ranjit Kripalsingh. That gave me two names. But Deschampsneufs had five apart from his last name, all french, all short, all oridinary, but this conglomeration of the ordinary wonderfully suggested the extraordinary. I thought to compete. I broke Kripalsingh into two, correctly reviving an ancient fracture, as I felt; gave myself the further name of Ralph; and signe dmyself R.R. K. Singh.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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What did we talk about? we were, of course, of the left. We were socialist. We stood for the dignity of the working man. We stood for the dignity of distress. We stood for the dignity of our island, the dignity of our indignity. Borrowed phrases! LEft-wing, right-wing: did it matter/ Did we believed in the abolition of private property? Was it relevant to the violation which was our subject? We spoke as honest men. But we used borrowed phrases which were part of the escape from thought, from that reality we wanted people to see but could ourselves now scarecly face. We entrhoned indignity and distress. We went no further.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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So i went on, naming, naming; and, later, I required everything - every government building, every road, every agricultural schen.e - to be labelled. It suggested drama, activity. It reinforced reality. It reinforced that sense of ownership which overcame me whenever I returned to the island after a trip abroad: do not think I was exempt from that feeling.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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SO the roman house died a second time.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul (history is repeat)
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There, in Liege in a traffic jam, on the snow slopes of the Laurentians, was the true, pure wolrd. We, here on our island, handling books printed in this world, and using its goods, had been abandoned and forgotten. We pretended to be real, to be learning, to be preparing ourselves for life, we mimic men of the new world, one unknown corner of it, with all its reminders of the corruption that came so quickly to the new.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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unease later defining itself - were cartoon characters, exaggerating their roles
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Mimic Men, Naipaul
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Eden was something of a buffoon. He was the blackest boy in the school and for some time was known as Spite because some boys said he was black for spite. His reputation as a buffoon and his special relationship with Deschamsneufs had been established early at Isabella Imperial.
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Mimic Men, Naipaul (master-slave)
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Because there was no way in hell a black face could appear in a newspaper if the story was about something anybody wanted to hear. A whip of fear broke through the heart chambers as soon as you saw a Negro's face in a paper, since the face was not there because the person had a healthy baby, or outran a street mob. Nor was it there because the person had been killed, or maimed or caught or burned or jailed or whipped or evicted or stomped or raped or cheated, since that could hardly qualify as news in a newspaper. It would have to be something out of the ordinary-something whitepeople would find interesting, truly different, worth a few minutes of teeth sucking if not gasps. And it must have been hard to find news about Negroes worth the breath catch of a white citizien of Cincinnati.
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Beloved, Morrison (newsprint)
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--Could recognize only seventy-five printed words(half of which appeard in the newspaper clipping), but she knew that the words she did not understand hadn't any more power than she had to explain. It was the smile and the upfront love that made her try.
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Beloved, MOrrison (skepticism for newsprint)
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Had she waited just a little she would have seen the end of the War, its short, flashy results.
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Beloved, Morrison (encyc. ref. war)
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The War had been over four or five years then, but nobody white or black seemed to know it.
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Beloved, Morrison (ref. to war)
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Twenty eight days. Days of healing, ease and real-talk. Days of company: knowing the names of forty, fifty other Negroes, their veiws, habits; where they had been and what done; of feeling their fun and sorrow along with her own, which made it better.
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Beloved, Morrison (28 days of freedom, womanly cycle)
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Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Someday you be walking down the road and you hear something or see something going on. So clear. and you think it's you thinking it up. A thought picture. But no. It's when yuou bump into a remeory that belongs to somebody else. Where I was before I came here, that place is real. IT's never going away. Even if the whole farm-every tree and grass blade of it dies.
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Beloved, MOrrison (past is kept alive like a ghost. It lives outside her head)
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because the last color she remembered was the pink chips in the headstone of her baby girl. After that she becamse as color conscious as a hen.
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Beloved, Morrison (shows rememory isn't memory, she has a bad memory).
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When they caught up with each other, all thirty, and arrived at 124, the first thing they saw was not -- sitting on the steps, but themselves. Younger, stronger, even as little girls lying in the grass asleep. Catfish was popping grease in the pan and they saw themselves scoop German potato salad onto the plate. Cobbler oozing purple syrup colored their teeth.
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Beloved, Morrison (nostalgia for youth. excercise baby sugg's ghost).
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I am -- and she is mine. I see her take flowers away from leaves she puts them in a round basket the leaves are not for her she fills the basket she opens the grass i would help her but the clouds are in the way how can i say things that are pictures i am not separate from her there is no place where I stop her face is my own and I want to be there in the place where her face is and to be loooking at it too a hot thing
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Beloved, Morrison (trauma is a space of timelessness)
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All of it is now it is always now there will never be a time when I am not crouching and watching others who are crouching too i am always crouching the man on my face is dead his face is not mine his mouth smells sweet but his eyes are locked
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Beloved Morrison (crouching cargo hold?)
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