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| Author |
Message |
| 25 new of 278 responses total. |
void
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response 15 of 278:
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Mar 24 12:49 UTC 1999 |
roald dahl is right. the quotations were from _my uncle oswald_.
i'll let cyklone and md decide between themselves who is next.
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awwn96
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response 16 of 278:
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Mar 27 04:58 UTC 1999 |
quit
quit at the start of a line
?
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bdh1
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response 17 of 278:
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Mar 27 09:29 UTC 1999 |
"Fiery the angels fell. Deep thunder rolled along lee shores."
"Burning with the fires of Ork."
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happyboy
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response 18 of 278:
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Mar 27 22:37 UTC 1999 |
d00d...is that a zepplin t00n?
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bdh1
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response 19 of 278:
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Mar 30 09:26 UTC 1999 |
Heh, yeah.
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davel
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response 20 of 278:
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Mar 30 12:04 UTC 1999 |
None the less, we're waiting for either cycyklone or md ...
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cyklone
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response 21 of 278:
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Mar 30 12:32 UTC 1999 |
I'll defer to anyone who wants to enter a quote (or to md).
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md
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response 22 of 278:
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Mar 30 12:35 UTC 1999 |
Oops, sorry. Here's one:
"She says this park would make a tidy summer resort, if
there was any custom for it. Summer resort -- another
invention of hers -- just words, without any meaning.
What is a summer resort? But it is best not to ask her,
she has such a rage for explaining."
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md
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response 23 of 278:
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Mar 31 00:04 UTC 1999 |
Here's another one, same author of course:
"The naming goes recklessly on, in spite of anything
I can do. I had a very good name for the estate, and
it was musical and pretty -- Garden-of-Eden. Privately,
I continue to call it that, but not any longer publicly.
The new creature says it is all woods and rocks and
scenery, and therefor has no resemblance to a garden.
She says it *looks* like a park, and does not look like
anything *but* a park. Consequently, without consulting
me, it has been new-named -- Niagara Falls Park. This
is sufficiently highhanded, it seems to me. And already
there is a sign up:
KEEP OFF
THE GRASS
My life is not as happy as it was."
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johnnie
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response 24 of 278:
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Mar 31 02:07 UTC 1999 |
Twain.
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md
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response 25 of 278:
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Mar 31 05:21 UTC 1999 |
Got 'im! Johnnie's up.
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omni
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response 26 of 278:
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Mar 31 08:10 UTC 1999 |
Damn. I love that story. "The Diary of Adam and Eve".
I especially like the last line. "Wherever she was, there was Eden."
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johnnie
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response 27 of 278:
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Apr 1 00:00 UTC 1999 |
Okay, here we go...
The young dandy was so much absorbed in his anxious quest that he did
not observe his own success; he did not hear, he did not see the
ironical exclamations of admiration, the genuine appreciation, the
biting gibes, the soft invitations of some of the masks. Though he was
so handsome as to rank among those exceptional persons who come to an
opera ball in search of an adventure, and who expect it as confidently
as men looked for a lucky coup at roulette in Frascati's day, he
seemed quite philosophically sure of his evening; he must be the hero
of one of those mysteries with three actors which constitute an opera
ball, and are known only to those who play a part in them; for, to
young wives who come merely to say, "I have seen it," to country
people, to inexperienced youths, and to foreigners, the opera house
must on those nights be the palace of fatigue and dulness. To these,
that black swarm, slow and serried--coming, going, winding, turning,
returning, mounting, descending, comparable only to ants on a pile of
wood--is no more intelligible than the Bourse to a Breton peasant who
has never heard of the Grand livre.
With a few rare exceptions, men wear no masks in Paris; a man in a
domino is thought ridiculous. In this the spirit of the nation betrays
itself. Men who want to hide their good fortune can enjoy the opera
ball without going there; and masks who are absolutely compelled to go
in come out again at once. One of the most amusing scenes is the crush
at the doors produced as soon as the dancing begins, by the rush of
persons getting away and struggling with those who are pushing in. So
the men who wear masks are either jealous husbands who come to watch
their wives, or husbands on the loose who do not wish to be watched by
them--two situations equally ridiculous.
Now, our young man was followed, though he knew it not, by a man in a
mask, dogging his steps, short and stout, with a rolling gait, like a
barrel. To every one familiar with the opera this disguise betrayed a
stock-broker, a banker, a lawyer, some citizen soul suspicious of
infidelity. For in fact, in really high society, no one courts such
humiliating proofs. Several masks had laughed as they pointed this
preposterous figure out to each other; some had spoken to him, a few
young men had made game of him, but his stolid manner showed entire
contempt for these aimless shafts; he went on whither the young man
led him, as a hunted wild boar goes on and pays no heed to the bullets
whistling about his ears, or the dogs barking at his heels.
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sekari
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response 28 of 278:
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Apr 1 19:46 UTC 1999 |
thomas pynchon?
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johnnie
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response 29 of 278:
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Apr 1 23:40 UTC 1999 |
'fraid not...
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johnnie
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response 30 of 278:
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Apr 3 23:35 UTC 1999 |
seems to be a dearth of guessing. let's try another quote from
the same work...
At this moment journalists, dandies, and idlers were all examining the
charming subject of their bet as horse-dealers examine a horse for
sale. These connoisseurs, grown old in familiarity with every form of
Parisian depravity, all men of superior talent each his own way,
equally corrupt, equally corrupting, all given over to unbridled
ambition, accustomed to assume and to guess everything, had their eyes
centered on a masked woman, a woman whom no one else could identify.
They, and certain habitual frequenters of the opera balls, could alone
recognize under the long shroud of the black domino, the hood and
falling ruff which make the wearer unrecognizable, the rounded form,
the individuality of figure and gait, the sway of the waist, the
carriage of the head--the most intangible trifles to ordinary eyes,
but to them the easiest to discern.
In spite of this shapeless wrapper they could watch the most appealing
of dramas, that of a woman inspired by a genuine passion. Were she La
Torpille, the Duchesse de Maufrigneuse, or Madame de Serizy, on the
lowest or highest rung of the social ladder, this woman was an
exquisite creature, a flash from happy dreams. These old young men,
like these young old men, felt so keen an emotion, that they envied
Lucien the splendid privilege of working such a metamorphosis of a
woman into a goddess. The mask was there as though she had been alone
with Lucien; for that woman the thousand other persons did not exist,
nor the evil and dust-laden atmosphere; no, she moved under the
celestial vault of love, as Raphael's Madonnas under their slender
oval glory. She did not feel herself elbowed; the fire of her glance
shot from the holes in her mask and sank into Lucien's eyes; the
thrill of her frame seemed to answer to every movement of her
companion. Whence comes this flame that radiates from a woman in love
and distinguishes her above all others? Whence that sylph-like
lightness which seems to negative the laws of gravitation? Is the soul
become ambient? Has happiness a physical effluence?
The ingenuousness of a girl, the graces of a child were discernible
under the domino. Though they walked apart, these two beings suggested
the figures of Flora and Zephyr as we see them grouped by the
cleverest sculptors; but they were beyond sculpture, the greatest of
the arts; Lucien and his pretty domino were more like the angels
busied with flowers or birds, which Gian Bellini has placed beneath
the effigies of the Virgin Mother. Lucien and this girl belonged to
the realm of fancy, which is as far above art as cause is above
effect.
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gjharb
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response 31 of 278:
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Apr 4 02:07 UTC 1999 |
Could we have a hint or two about the author?
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md
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response 32 of 278:
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Apr 4 12:09 UTC 1999 |
Balzac.
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remmers
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response 33 of 278:
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Apr 4 12:54 UTC 1999 |
(Balzac would have been my guess too. Perhaps it's even right...)
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johnnie
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response 34 of 278:
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Apr 5 02:11 UTC 1999 |
Balzac is, indeed, correct. From "Scenes From a Courtesan's Life".
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md
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response 35 of 278:
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Apr 5 02:43 UTC 1999 |
I defer to remmers, who had guessed Balzac but got
here too late, and who enters far more interesting
mystery quotes than I.
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senna
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response 36 of 278:
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Apr 5 04:03 UTC 1999 |
Balzac's a real author? Wow. I just remember the line from "Music
Man."
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remmers
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response 37 of 278:
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Apr 5 16:14 UTC 1999 |
Yep, Balzac is for real. Generally regarded as one of the great 19th
century novelists.
Hm, I should find a quote. I'll try to do that by tomorrow.
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remmers
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response 38 of 278:
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Apr 6 17:23 UTC 1999 |
This quote is from a living American writer:
The study -- sold as a prefabricated toolshed -- is
eight feet by ten feet. Like a plane's cockpit, it is
crammed with high-tech equipment. There is no quill pen
in sight. There is a computer, a printer, and a photo-
copying machine. My backless chair, a prie-dieu on which
I kneel, slides under the desk; I give it a little kick
when I leave. There is an air conditioner, a heater, and
an electric kettle. There is a low-tech bookshelf, a
shelf of gull and whale bones, and a bed. Under the bed
I stow paints -- a one-pint can of yellow to touch up
the window's trim, and five or six tubes of artists'
oils. The study affords ample room for one. One who is
supposed to be writing books. You can read in the space
of a coffin, and you can write in the space of a tool-
shed meant for mowers and spades.
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drewmike
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response 39 of 278:
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Apr 6 18:36 UTC 1999 |
The Unabomber?
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