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Evicted: Poverty ...
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by Matthew Desmond (Goodreads Author)
bookshelves: currently-reading, dnf
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  (page 200 of 418)
Jan 23, 2018 06:27PM

 
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Cormac McCarthy
“What's the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat in the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.”
Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Cormac McCarthy
“When your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up.”
Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Cormac McCarthy
“Then don't. I can't help you. They say that women dream of danger to those in their care and men of danger to themselves. But I don't dream at all. You say you can't? Then don't do it. That's all. Because I am done with my own whorish heart and I have been for a long time. You talk about taking a stand but there is no stand to take. My heart was ripped out of me the night he was born so don't ask for sorrow now. There is none. Maybe you'll be good at this. I doubt it, but who knows. The one thing I can tell you is that you won't survive for yourself. I know because I would have never have come this far. A person who had no one would be well advised to cobble together some passable ghost. Breathe it into being and coax it along with words of love. Offer it each phantom crumb and sheild it from harm with your body. As for me my only hope is for eternal nothingness and I hope it with all my heart.”
Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Cormac McCarthy
“The man could hear him playing. A formless music for the age to come. Or perhaps the last music on earth called up from out of the ashes of its ruin.”
Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Cormac McCarthy
“The world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anynymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell. The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes. Out on the roads the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.”
Cormac McCarthy, The Road

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