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Wuthering Heights
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bookshelves: currently-reading, fiction
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Jan 22, 2026 03:55PM

 
The Tears of Thin...
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The Most Famous M...
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See all 351 books that Matt is reading…
Book cover for An American Conscience: The Reinhold Niebuhr Story
The logic of the Social Gospel presumed that a clear-eyed and courageous group of Christians could use rational suasion and moral authority to awaken the nation’s social conscience.
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Truman Capote
“Joel gazed down on the jumbled green, trying to picture the music room and the dancers ... but the willows were willows and the goldenrod goldenrod and the dancers dead and lost.”
Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

Truman Capote
“Inasmuch as I was born dead, how ironic that I should die at all; yes, born dead, literally: the midwife was perverse enough to slap me into life. Or did she?”
Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

Truman Capote
“Who needs money anyhow? Leastwise, not right aways we don't ... except for dopes. We ought to save enough so we can have a dope every day cause my brains get fried if I can't have myself an ice-cold dope. And cigarettes. I surely do appreciate a smoke. Dopes and smokes and Henry are the only things I love." "You like me some, don't you?" he said, without meaning really to speak aloud. In any case, Idabel ... did not answer.”
Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

Truman Capote
“The stifling room was musty; it smelled of old furniture and the burned out fires of wintertime...”
Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

Truman Capote
“They followed the remnants of a road down which once had spun the wheels of lacquered carriages carrying verbena-scented ladies who twittered like linnets in the shade of parasols; and leathery cotton-rich gentlemen gruffing at each through a violet haze of Havana smoke, and their children, prim little girls with mint crushed in their handkerchiefs, and boys with mean blackberry eyes, little boys who sent their sisters screaming with tales of roaring tigers. Gusts of autumn, exhaling through the inheriting weeds, grieved for the cruel velvet children and their virile bearded fathers: Was, said the weeds, Gone, said the sky, Dead, said the woods, but the full laments of history were left to the Whippoorwill.”
Truman Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

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