speechIn thinking about these posts I often note down quotes that seem relevant to the subject. I’m also always reading something and have a bad habit of turning down page corners to mark a passage or line I like. Most of them will never be worked into a blog post, but it seems a shame not to share them, so there’s a selection below.

“Superstition, bigotry and prejudice, ghosts though they are, cling tenanciously to life; they are shades armed with tooth and claw. They must be grappled with unceasingly, for it is a fateful part of human destiny that it is condemmed to wage perpetual war against ghosts. A shade is not easily taken by the throat and destroyed.”

Victor Hugo.

John Oliver on Trump

“A Klan-backed misogynist internet troll is going to be delivering the next State of the Union address,” he said. “That is not normal. That is fucked up.”

American football coach Joe Paterno
“Publicity is like poison; it doesn’t hurt unless you swallow it.”

Kathleen Jamie on Poetry
When we were young, we were told that poetry is about voice, about finding a voice and speaking with this voice, but the older I get I think it’s not about voice, it’s about listening and the art of listening, listening with attention. I don’t just mean with the ear; bringing the quality of attention to the world. The writers I like best are those who attend.

Olivia Laing, from To The River

“The past is not behind us but beneath, and the ground we walk on is nothing more than a pit of bones, from which the grass unstinting grows.”

“I wondered if the river itself was holding it, for some things are drawn to water and behave differently when they are near it. I’ve watched mist gather on the surface of a stream where there is none elsewhere, and seen those little circling courts of flies that dance all evening above a single kink in a current.”

John Cowper Powys on Second-hand Bookshops – this is/was in the window of Walden Books, Chalk Farm 

Though books, as Milton says, may be the embalming of mighty spirits, they are also the resurrection of rebellious, reactionary, fantastical, and wicked spirits! in books dwell all the demons and all the angels of the human mind. it is for this reason that a a bookshop — especially a second-hand bookshop / antiquarian – is an arsenal of explosives, an armory of revolutions, an opium den of reaction.

and just because books are the repository of all the redemptions and damnations, all the sanities and insanities, of the divine anarchy of the soul, they are still, as they have always been, an object of suspicion to every kind of ruling authority. in a second-hand bookshop are the horns of the altar where all the outlawed thoughts of humanity can take refuge! here, like desperate bandits, hide all the reckless progeny of our wild, dark, self-lacerating hearts. a bookshop is powder-magazine, a dynamite-shed, a drugstore of poisons, a bar of intoxicants, a den of opiates, an island of sirens.

Of all the ‘houses of ill fame’ which a tyrant, a bureaucrat, a propagandist, a moralist, a champion of law and order, an advocate of keeping people ignorant for their own good, hurries past with averted eyes or threatens with his minions, a bookshop is the most flagrant.

John Williams, Stoner

“Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realised the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.”


Patrick Leigh Fermor, A Time of Gifts

“The reflected shore lights dropped coils and zigzags into the flood which were thrown into disarray every now and then, by the silhouettes of passing vessels’ luminous portholes, the funereal shapes of barges singled out by their port  and starboard lights and cutters of the river police smacking from wave to wave as purposefully and as fast as pikes. Once we gave way to a liner that towered out of the water like a festive block of flats; from Hong Kong, said the steward, as she glided by; and the different notes of the sirens boomed up and downstream as though mastodons still haunted the Thames marshes.”

Pete Brown, Three Sheets to the Wind

“A few weeks later, I’m boarding a plane to Brussels…I’m in the window seat, which means I have to ask the smartly grey-suited young man in the aisle seat to move. He doesn’t look at all pleased by this. ‘Don’t tread on the briefcase,’ he snaps, clambering out of his seat.

‘Well, don’t leave “the briefcase” in the middle of the floor where I have to stride over it, you pompous cock,’ I retort telepathically…”

“In contrast to the lush, padded-shouldered widescreen vision of transatlantic pop – the huge, gated reverb drum sound of Phil Collins, Pat Benatar, Duran Duran and their peers – indie was slim, spiky, jangly, skinny, and frequently harked back to a classic sixties template or the angular funkiness of post-punk. Indie offered a different narrative to the one that is generally seen as the story of the 1980s: vintage clothes, old records, bedsits, Penguin modern classics, black and white movies instead of the champagne, filofaxes and outsize mobile phones of Thatcher’s children.”
Stuart Maconie, The People’s Songs: The story of Modern Britain in 50 Records

“I want to make beautiful things. Even if nobody cares.”
– Saul Bass

“Adults follow paths. Children explore. Adults are content to walk the same way, hundreds of times, or thousands; perhaps it never occurs to adults  to step off the paths, to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find the spaces between fences.”
– Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane

“Whiteness of moonlight builds a house that is not there”
– Kathleen Raine, The Hollow Hill

“They said, “You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.”
The man replied, “Things as they are
Are changed upon the blue guitar.”

– Wallace Stephens, The Man with the Blue Guitar

  “The City is a woman bigger than any other
Oh, sophisticated lady,
I wanna be your lover,
not your brother,
or your mother, yeah.”

– Jarvis Cocker, Sheffield Sex City

A man once told me that you step out of your door in the morning, and you are already in trouble. The only question is are you on top of that trouble or not?
 – Walter Mosley, Devil in a Blue Dress.

“The Winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.”

– T.S. Eliot, Preludes.

“There is no money in poetry, but then there is no poetry in money.”
– Robert Graves
Harry Burns: You realize of course that we could never be friends.
Sally Albright: Why not?
Harry Burns: What I’m saying is – and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form – is that men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.
Sally Albright: That’s not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved.
Harry Burns: No you don’t.
Sally Albright: Yes I do.
Harry Burns: No you don’t.
Sally Albright: Yes I do.
Harry Burns: You only think you do.
Sally Albright: You say I’m having sex with these men without my knowledge?
Harry Burns: No, what I’m saying is they all WANT to have sex with you.
Sally Albright: They do not.
Harry Burns: Do too.
Sally Albright: They do not.
Harry Burns: Do too.
Sally Albright: How do you know?
Harry Burns: Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her.
Sally Albright: So, you’re saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive?
Harry Burns: No. You pretty much want to nail ’em too.
Sally Albright: What if THEY don’t want to have sex with YOU?
Harry Burns: Doesn’t matter because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story.
Sally Albright: Well, I guess we’re not going to be friends then.
Harry Burns: I guess not.
Sally Albright: That’s too bad. You were the only person I knew in New York.
– Nora Ephron, When Harry Met Sally

“Many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese-toasted, mostly” (Ch. XV, p. 142).
Ben Gunn speaking to Jim Hawkins – Treasure Island. 

“Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other. ”
— Rainer Maria Rilke

“Vell, Zaphod’s just zis guy, you know?”
– Douglas Adams.

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