Sublime

“Power’ll still be up—prob’ly sprawling on that white rug of his, with Parrington in front of ’im,” laughed David. It was, Maud Martha observed, one of the conceits of David McKemster that he did not have to use impeccable English all the time. Sometimes it was permissible to make careful slips. These must be, however, when possible, sandwiched in

Hemingway offered to modify the noun with “lousy” or “lesbian,” but if anyone was ever a bitch, he said it was Gertrude Stein.

“I’m Mrs. Burns-Cooper,” said the woman, “and after this, well, it’s all right this time, because it’s your first time, but after this time always use the back entrance.” There is a pear in my icebox, and one end of rye bread. Except for three Irish potatoes and a cup of flour and the empty Christmas boxes, there is absolutely nothing on my shelf.

In the French commune there is properly but one official functionary, namely, the Maire; and in New England we have seen that there are nineteen.

the public life of liberal Hollywood comprises a kind of dictatorship of good intentions, a social contract in which actual and irreconcilable disagreement is as taboo as failure or bad teeth, a climate devoid of irony.

“She said a lot of stupid shit. But Kelly Maguire’s not a racist. Not by a long shot. Good God, she’s fucking Nelson Mandela compared to some of the Aryan assholes we got badged up.”