Brett

“No one moved. In that cold stable the shutting of the door may have evoked in some hearts other hostels and not of their choosing. The mare sniffed uneasily and the young colt stepped about. Then one by one they began to divest themselves of their outer clothes, the hide slickers and raw wool serapes and vests, and one by one they propagated about themselves a great crackling of sparks and each man was seen to wear a shroud of palest fire. Their arms aloft pulling at their clothes were luminous and each obscure soul was enveloped in audible shapes of light as if it had always been so. The mare at the far end of the stable snorted and shied at his luminosity in beings so endarkened and the little horse turned and hid his face in the web of his dam's flank.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or, the Evening Redness in the West

“The story of this man who had killed a messenger and hanged himself would make interesting reading. One could almost write a whole chapter on him. Perhaps not a whole chapter but a reasonable paragraph, at any rate. There was so much else to include, and one must be firm in cutting out details. He had already chosen the title of the book, after much thought: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.”
― Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart

“I'm twenty-eight now and hate architecture, my profession. Otto's dead. Mimi--women close themselves off from me. Everybody knows how to live, I see how they go on living without me, I can't find my way in. Walls always shove themselves in front of me, it's necessary to be polite and go in disguise. Still, there is something to me. And now the war...”
― Siegfried Kracauer, Ginster