Philosophical Parsnip

Americana, good books, and the occasional poem

Posts tagged fiction

0 notes

The little birds were fluttering around the hooves of the donkey as it trotted along the white, frosty road. From time to time, breaking the deep peace of a wintry afternoon, came the distant shout of a shepherdess or a boy calling his friend from one copse to another.
Le Grand Meaulnes, Alain-Fournier

Filed under le grand meaulnes lit fiction alain-fournier books french winter

0 notes

He has been AWOL off and on since the Battle of the Bulge, and with a death rap for that over his head he still goes into U.S. Army bases at night to the canteens to watch the movies—provided they’re westerns, he loves those shit-kickers, the sound of hoofbeats through a metal speaker across a hundred yards of oildrums and deuce ‘n’ a half ruts in the foreign earth makes his heart stir as if a breeze blew there, he’s got some of his many contacts to run him off a master schedule of every movie playing in every occupation town in the Theatre, and he’s been known to hot-wire a general’s jeep just to travel up to that Poitiers for the evening to see a good old Bob Steele or Johnny Mack Brown. His picture may hang prominently in the guardrooms and be engraved in thousands of snowdrops’ brains, but he has seen The Return of Jack Slade twenty-seven times.

Filed under movies america westerns lit pynchon thomas pynchon literature fiction gravity's rainbow

1 note

This is the kind of sunset you hardly see any more, a 19th-century wilderness sunset, a few of which got set down, approximated, on canvas, landscapes of the American West by artists nobody ever heard of, when the land was still free and the eye innocent, and the presence of the Creator much more direct. Here it thunders now over the Mediterranean, high and lonely, this anachronism in primal red, in yellow purer than can be found anywhere today, a purity begging to be polluted… of course Empire took its way westward, what other way was there but into those virgin sunsets to penetrate and to foul?

Filed under slothrop gravity's rainbow lit literature fiction pynchon thomas pynchon

4 notes

Destiny waits, a darkness latent in the texture of the summer wind. Destiny will betray you, crush your ideals, deliver you into the same detestable Burgerlichkeit as your father, sucking at his pipe on Sunday strolls after church past the row houses by the river—dress you in the gray uniform of another family man, and without a whimper you will serve out your time, fly from pain to duty, from joy to work, from commitment to neutrality. Destiny does all this to you.
Gravity’s Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

Filed under destiny lit gravity's rainbow life middle class fate fiction books pynchon

0 notes

In 1925 Reg Le Froyd, an inmate at “The White Visitation,” escaped—rushed through the upper town to stand teetering at the edge of the cliff, hair and hospital garment flickering in the wind, the swaying miles of south coast, pallid chalk, jetties and promenades fading right and left into brine haze. After him came a Constable Stuggles, at the head of a curious crowd. “Don’t jump!” cries the constable.
“I never thought of doing that,” Le Froyd continuing to stare out to sea.
“Then what are you doing here. Eh?”
“Wanted to look at the sea,” Le Froyd explains. “I’ve never seen it. I am, you know, related, by blood, to the sea.”
Gravity’s Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon

Filed under pynchon lit books sea ocean water gravity's rainbow fiction

0 notes

"Hysterics, eh?" Atkinson said, and slapped Margaret several times on the face, very hard, Dixon thought. He pushed Dixon out of the way and sat down on the bed, gripping Margaret by the shoulders and shaping her vigorously. "There’s some whisky up in my cupboard. Go and get it."

Dixon ran out and up the stairs. The only thought that present itself to him at all clearly was one of mild surprise that the fictional or cinematic treatment of hysterics should be based so firmly on what was evidently the right treatment.”

Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis

Filed under whisky whiskey kingsley amis lucky jim books fiction lit english hysterics