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Native Son
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White Noise
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The Heart Is a Lo...
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F. Scott Fitzgerald
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chuck Palahniuk
“May I never be complete. May I never be content. May I never be perfect.”
Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Virginia Woolf
“She had the perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very, dangerous to live even one day.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

William Faulkner
“In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not. Jewel knows he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not. He cannot empty himself for sleep because he is not what he is and he is what he is not. Beyond the unlamped wall I can hear the rain shaping the wagon that is ours, the load that is no longer theirs that felled and sawed it nor yet theirs that bought it and which is not ours either, lie on our wagon though it does, since only the wind and the rain shape it only to Jewel and me, that are not asleep. And since sleep is is-not and rain and wind are was, it is not. Yet the wagon is, because when the wagon is was, Addie Bundren will not be. And Jewel is, so Addie Bundren must be. And then I must be, or I could not empty myself for sleep in a strange room. And so if I am not emptied yet, I am is.

How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.”
William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying

Virginia Woolf
“So he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, - by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

year in books
Jason M...
79 books | 99 friends

Erin Kae
1,263 books | 125 friends

Jayson ...
142 books | 36 friends

Mark Bu...
139 books | 52 friends

Kelly O...
73 books | 37 friends

Mike Nolan
14 books | 26 friends

Pol Ros...
84 books | 45 friends

Mark Diven
61 books | 4 friends





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