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Grex > Books > #100: The Summer Mysterious Quote item | |
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| 25 new of 104 responses total. |
remmers
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response 50 of 104:
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Jul 20 14:18 UTC 2001 |
<remmers, having never heard of Francesca Lia Block, doesn't feel too
badly about not having guessed this one>
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rcurl
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response 51 of 104:
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Jul 20 16:04 UTC 2001 |
_Weetzie Bat_? Is that about a bat (chiroptera)?
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orinoco
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response 52 of 104:
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Jul 20 22:41 UTC 2001 |
Given the quotes, I'm pretty sure it's about a bat (h. sapiens sapiens). Then
again, I might be wrong...
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micklpkl
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response 53 of 104:
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Jul 21 21:30 UTC 2001 |
I hope this will be an easy one:
At dawn, bleary-eyed but joyful, the three youngsters took off
across the wet dewy fields and went into the woods to the brook
among the pines, where they had done the old swimming as little
kids. And just as they got there the sun began to come up, the
mists stirred over the hillsides and over the placid brook, birds
peeped in the pines, the last pale stars trembled, and great light
began to overspread the world.
"Rosy-fingered dawn!" howled young Panos with indescribable
delight, and they were all awake now, strangely ecstatic, and each
began to sing, babble, and wander around in the woods throwing
sticks, Alexander himself singing in a loud bawling voice that might
have been heard two miles away in the profound stillness. He even
ran tripping to the top of a little hill, yelling joyous hosannahs
and holding out his arms to the sky, while Peter and Tommy
watched him, amazed.
Peter, for his part, kept looking up at the sky and yelling
"Space!" or down in the water with a show of moodiness, saying
"Lucidness," or stamping his feet on the ground and repeating over
and over again, "Solidness, solidness, solidness," though he hadn't
the vaguest idea why he enjoyed doing this. And Tommy Camp-
bell, flinging his tunic over his shoulder in the warm morning,
began to sing in a high cracked voice. On the Road to Mandalay,
which echoed and re-echoed in the woods, especially when Panos
lent his own thunderous voice' to the refrain. They felt wonder-
fully foolish and happy and they let go with anything that came
to their minds.
"Because the sun is coming up!" howled Alexander. "Only be-
cause the sun is coming up! We came here just for that!"
"We thronged!" shouted Peter triumphantly.
"Yes! Through the woods!" bawled Alexander. "Oh, listen to
me! Beauty is truth, and truth is beauty, and that is all ye need
to know!"
"Chambers of beauty!" cried Tommy Campbell, pointing to the
rays of light streaming down between the pines.
"God's cathedral-l-l!" called Alexander through cupped hands in
a great shout that carried across the fields, and they all laughed
savagely.
Then, as the sun came up in full brilliant array far off over the
hills, fanning light all over the sky and gilding little dawn-clouds
that were regimented beautifully overhead, the boys fell silent, in
awe, and stood on the two little hills watching, Panos and Camp-
bell on one hill, and Peter alone on another, all of them brooding
and reflective. It was a strange little moment of meditation in the
deep stillness of the morning, with only the sound of a farmer's
horse neighing faintly far away and clip-clopping on a road, and
someone whistling far away, and a barndoor closing.
They trudged back home wearily, after a quick shivering swim
in the brook where Alexander splashed about prodigiously, scream-
ing: "Mumbo Jumbo God of the Congo and all of the other Gods
of the Congo!" Now, their meditations over as whimsically as they
had begun, they jabbered excitedly all the way home; Alexander
wound a flower around his ear. Peter chewed the stems of long
grass, and Tommy strode along like a prophet, carrying a huge
limb from a rotted tree. They happened to see two veiled old
ladies trudging along the road, apparently towards the church in
Norcott, two darkly-clad old women faithful to some endless
novena. Peter pointed at them with the air of a prophet, saying:
"Fear." Alexander went into a little dance that was intended to
represent fear, and Tommy Campbell raised his huge tree-bough
and waved it thrice in solemn blessing.
They strode on home eagerly, hungrily. Alexander cried: "Up
there!" and they all stopped. Alexander was pointing at the sky,
saying: "Glory!" They all stared up at the sky.
"Here!" cried Tommy Campbell, pointing to the ground at his
feet. "Death!"
Alexander knelt on the ground and tenderly took the flower from
his ear, and laid it down, and covered it with a little bier of earth,
his whole body, meanwhile, seeming to tremble suddenly from
some spasmodic feeling.
"What's left of life," he said mournfully, "what's left of life, a
little flower. Immortal little flower that venerates us, that venerates
us and all that this morning means. Weep for the little flower,
weep for the petals in its heart, weep for us, weep for us!" He knelt
there, while the boys watched grinning, he knelt there and seemed
to be wrapped in a secret, prescient ecstasy of what his life was to
him.
And then they went on home.
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ea
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response 54 of 104:
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Jul 22 01:45 UTC 2001 |
Probably wrong, but C.S. Lewis?
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senna
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response 55 of 104:
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Jul 22 08:19 UTC 2001 |
I'll snidely throw Ray Bradbury in as my guess, since this has a style very
similar to the Pioneer 9th grade English ultra-reviled Dandelion Wine.
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orinoco
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response 56 of 104:
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Jul 22 13:53 UTC 2001 |
It makes me want to say C.S. Lewis too, even though I can't for the life of
me think what book of his it would be. Edward Eager? I can't picture him
being nearly this apocalyptic, but it's worth a try.
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micklpkl
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response 57 of 104:
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Jul 22 18:03 UTC 2001 |
No, not C.S. Lewis, Ray Bradbury, or Edward Eager.
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brighn
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response 58 of 104:
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Jul 23 14:01 UTC 2001 |
(I LIKE Bradbury, and Dandelion Wine!)
(The book. I've never had the beverage.)
I don't think Forster ever wrote about kids, but that's my what-the-hell guess
anyway. ;}
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micklpkl
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response 59 of 104:
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Jul 23 15:09 UTC 2001 |
No, not E.M. Forster.
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jiffer
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response 60 of 104:
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Jul 23 16:45 UTC 2001 |
Spelling correction.... E.M. Forrester. Thank you.
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brighn
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response 61 of 104:
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Jul 23 16:49 UTC 2001 |
Don't correct people who are correct, jiffer.
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0156711427/qid=995906815/sr=2-1/103-
375
8189-2164611
That's a link to Amazon's listing for "A Passage to India," written by Edward
Morgan Forster (with a picture of the bookcover, with the same spelling).
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slynne
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response 62 of 104:
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Jul 23 17:01 UTC 2001 |
She's thinking of that movie, _Finding Forrester_ *snort*
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senna
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response 63 of 104:
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Jul 23 17:21 UTC 2001 |
I don't necessarily have anything against Bradbury or the book, but it was
not a pleasant class excersize :) If I read it again, I might not dislike
it now.
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brighn
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response 64 of 104:
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Jul 23 17:59 UTC 2001 |
... and just what's WRONG with that movie, Finding Forrester? 'TWas a fine
fine movie.
What was the class exercise?
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slynne
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response 65 of 104:
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Jul 23 18:26 UTC 2001 |
Nothing was wrong with the movie. It was just about an author whose last
name was Forrester while old E.M.'s last name is Forster ;)
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brighn
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response 66 of 104:
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Jul 23 19:43 UTC 2001 |
Well, that's fine, since it wasn't about E.M.... ;}
I actually thought Forrester was more inspired by Salinger.
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remmers
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response 67 of 104:
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Jul 24 00:58 UTC 2001 |
And there is an actual author named C.S. Forrester. He did the
Horatio Hornblower series. None of which changes the fact that
I have no clue who the mystery author is.
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otaking
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response 68 of 104:
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Jul 24 03:31 UTC 2001 |
I'll give it a try. Stephen King?
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swa
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response 69 of 104:
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Jul 24 06:32 UTC 2001 |
_Weetzie bat_ is about a person whose name is Weetzie Bat.
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remmers
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response 70 of 104:
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Jul 24 10:11 UTC 2001 |
(Re #68: Hmm. S. King is a possibility. Wish I'd thought of it.)
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micklpkl
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response 71 of 104:
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Jul 24 13:23 UTC 2001 |
No, it's not Stephen King (interesting guess, though). I shall post another
quote from the same novel later this evening.
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orinoco
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response 72 of 104:
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Jul 24 20:17 UTC 2001 |
Arthur C. Clarke is another long shot, also probably wrong.
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micklpkl
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response 73 of 104:
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Jul 25 15:05 UTC 2001 |
No, not Arthur C Clarke. I apologise for not getting another excerpt OCR'd
last night, but I did find the section that should give this one away.
The author was a American writer from the last half of the 20th century.
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micklpkl
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response 74 of 104:
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Jul 27 01:34 UTC 2001 |
I hadn't intended to do this one, but here is another excerpt from earlier
in the same novel:
Little Mickey wakes up and goes to his window: it's Saturday
morning, no school today. And for him there's a still music in the
air like the faint sound of heraldry over the woods, like men,
horses and dogs gathering under the trees far across the field for
some joyous and adventurous foray. Everything is soft and musical,
and sweet, and full of longings, misty hints and unspeakable reve-
lations that float in the gentlest blue air. There, in the blue
shadows beneath the morning trees, in the cool speckled shade,
in the new green misty color of the woods far off, in the dark
ground still moist and all covered with little blossoms, there is
his hint of glorious spreading Summer, and the future. Mickey
dashes out. slamming the kitchen door behind him. goes rolling
his old rubber tire with a stick. He journeys down old Galloway
Road over the cool dewy tar, on each side of him the birds are
singing, he wonders when there'll be apples in old man Breton's
orchard there. He figures this year he will explore the river in
a boat. This year he will do everything, boy!
In the middle of the morning Mickey watches all the big guys
at the ballfield slamming their fists into their gloves, throwing a
brand new white baseball around. Someone has a bat, hitting
light bunts, the boys stoop to pick up the grounders and yell,
"Uff! I got them old kinks this year!"
Someone hoots under a high fly, punches his glove, pulls it
down, trots around awhile, lobs the ball back easily. It's Spring
training time, they've got to watch "the old arm." Mickey smells
the fragrant cigarette smoke in the morning air where the older
boys stand around talking. Big brother Joe Martin is winding up
leisurely, throwing to another boy who squats with a catcher's
mitt. Joe is a star pitcher, he knows how to take his time and get
the old kinks out in the Spring. Everybody watches as he lobs the
ball in easily, with a sure motion and a deadpan face. A minute
later he's whooping with laughter when someone gets a knock
on the shins from a hard grounder.
In his mother's cool shady kitchen, Mickey devours a bowl of
cereal and stares at the picture of Jimmy Foxx on the box cover.
His chums are coming up the road, he can hear them, they're
going off to play cowboys on the hill. He's Buck Jones all the
time. They're out in the yard now, calling:
"Mick-ee!"
Mickey comes storming out of the kitchen with both guns
blazing, "Kow! kow! kow!" and dodges behind a barrel; the
others take cover and return fire. Someone leaps up, twists, con-
torts, and falls slain to the grass.
In the Spring night, Joe tunes up the old Ford and roars off to
drink beer with his buddies. And on the first warm June night,
Mrs. Martin and Ruth dust off the old swing in the backyard,
put cushions on it, make a big bowl of popcorn, and go sit under
the moon, in the waving black shade of the high hedges.
A cousin sits with them in the breezy night, exclaiming: "Ooh!
ain't the moon grand!"
Old man Martin, banging around the kitchen making an egg
sandwich, mimics savagely: "Ain't the moon gry-and!"
The three women out in the yard, swinging rhythmically in the
creaking old swing, are telling each other about the best fortune-
tellers they have ever known.
"I tell you. Marge, she is uncannyl"
Mrs. Martin rocks in the swing, waiting patiently, with slitted
eyes, skeptical.
"She foretold almost everything that happened that year, detail
by detail, mind you!" And with this Cousin Leona looks up at
the moon and sighs, "The irony of this life. Marge, the irony of
life."
The father of the house stomps out of the kitchen with his
sandwich, mimicking again, savagely: "Oh, the irony of liaf!"
The women rock back and forth in the old creaking swing,
reaching mechanically into the popcorn bowl, musing, contented,
belonging to the wonderful darkness and the ripe June world,
owning it, as no barging man of the house could ever hope to
belong to any part of the earth or own an inch of it.
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