Beatrix

“(And did I mention how in summer the streets of Smyrna were lined with baskets of rose petals? And how everyone in the city could speak French, Italian, Greek, Turkish, English, and Dutch? And did I tell you about the famous figs, brought in by camel caravan and dumped onto the ground, huge piles of pulpy fruit lying in the dirt, with dirty women steeping them in salt water and children squatting to defecate behind the clusters? Did I mention how the reek of the fig women mixed with pleasanter smells of almond trees, mimosa, laurel, and peach, and how everybody wore masks on Mardi Gras and had elaborate dinners on the decks of frigates? I want to mention these things because they all happened in that city that was no place exactly, that was part of no country because it was all countries, and because now if you go there you'll see modern high-rises, amnesiac boulevards, teeming sweatshops, a NATO headquarters, and a sign that says Izmir...)”
― Jeffrey Eugenides, Middlesex

“Howie's troubles were a favorite family topic, and behind the shaking heads and oh it's so sads you could hear the joy pushing right up through because doesn't every family like having one person who's fucked up so fantastically that everyone else feels like a model citizen next to him?”
― Jennifer Egan, The Keep

“Okay, I write overblown, purple, self-indulgent prose. So fucking what?”
― Angela Carter

“You are driving home.
You listen to ‘Tongue Tied’ by Grouplove.
Someone side-swipes the Ferrari.
You almost strike three pedestrians and crash into a Dunkin’ Donuts.
This is somewhere near the Brooklyn Bridge and you find out—later—the lady who hit you, she died.
She was old.
“Wasn’t wearing her glasses,” someone on the street says.
“She was basically driving blind,” the police officer says. “I’m surprised this didn’t happen earlier.”
An EMT examines you.
You try and act normal.
“Am I hurt?” you ask.
“You’re not hurt,” the EMT says.
You talk to the cops.
“Am I in trouble?” you ask.
“You’re not in trouble,” a young cop says.
You freak out a little.
You can smell pomade in your sweat.
“Everything is under control,” someone says—another police officer.
You freak out some more.”
― Mike Kleine, Mastodon Farm