neon bible

For me, it's the week of the neon bible. I'm really loving it. I downloaded the entire album yesterday. Oh, I'm really loving it. I'll leave you with some of my favorite quotes/paragraphs from a book I like.







"Oh it's lovely to see you!" Franny said as the cab moved off. "I've missed you." The words were no sooner out than she realized that she didn't mean them at all. Again with guilt, she took Lane's hand and tightly, warmly laced fingers with him.

Franny nodded solemnly. She was looking at a little warm blotch of sunshine, about the size of a poker chip, on the tablecloth. "I had to strain to write it," she said.

She tipped her ashes. "I'm just so sick of pedants and conceited little tearer-downers I could scream." She looked at Lane. "I'm sorry. I'll stop. I give you my word... It's just that if I'd had any guts at all, I wouldn't have gone back to college at all this year. I don't know. I mean it's all the most incredible farce."
"Brilliant. That's really brilliant." Franny took the sarcasm as her due. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Stop saying you're sorry- do you mind? I don't supposed it's occurred to you that you're making one helluva sweeping generalization..."

"I know this much, is all," Franny said. "If you're a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean, you're supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. The ones you're talking about don't leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something, it doesn't have to be a poem, for heaven's sake. It may just be some kind of terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings- excuse the expression."

"I do like him. I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to god I could meet somebody I could respect.. Would you excuse me for just a minute?" Franny was suddenly on her feet, with her handbag in her hand. She was very pale.





Without any apparent regard to the suchness of her environment, she sat down. She brought her knees together very firmly, as if to make herself a smaller, more compact unit. Then she placed her hands, vertically, over her eyes and pressed the heels hard, as though to paralyze the optic nerve and drown all images into a voidlike black. Her extended fingers, though trembling, or because they were trembling, looked oddly graceful and pretty. She held that tense, almost fetal position for a suspensory moment-- then broke down. She cried for fully five minutes. She cried without trying to suppress any of the noisier manifestations of grief and confusion, with all the convulsive throat sounds that a hysterical child makes when the breath is trying to get up through a partly close epiglottis. And yet, when finally she stopped, she merely stopped, without the painful, knifelike intakes of breath that usually follow a violent outburst-inburst. When she stopped, it was as though some momentous change of polarity had taken place inside her mind, one that had an immediate, pacifying effect on her body.



My fingers are cold. There's much more that I wanted to put down. But my fingers are cold and it's getting late. I'll type in some more paragraphs tomorrow. I should get some sleep.