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I was a narrative historian, believing more and more as I matured that the first function of the historian was to answer the child's question, "What happened next?
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The music had to be rooted, and yet had to branch out,like the wild imagination of a child.
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Come, come, come. Without a monster or two it's not a quest, merely a gaggle of friends wandering about.
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Back in the days when American billboard advertising was in flower [said Hemingway], there were two slogans that I always rated above all others: the old Cremo Cigar ad that proclaimed, Spit Is a Horrid Word-but Worse on the end of Your Cigar, and Drink Schlitz in Brown Bottles and Avoid that Skunk Taste. You don't get creative writing like that any more.
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If there is any way you can get colder than you do when you sleep in a bedding roll on the ground in a tent in southern Tunisia two hours before dawn, I don't know about it.
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In the middle of nowhere, along a quiet stretch of road, the diner dreamt of the hungry dead. And of two men.
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Eagleton has spent his life inside two mental boxes, Catholicism and Marxism, of both of which he is a severe internal critic—that is, he frequently kicks and scratches at the inside of the boxes, but does not leave them. Neither are ideologies that loosen their grip easily, and people who need the security of adherence to a big dominating ideology, however much they kick and scratch but without daring to leave go, hold on to it every bit as tightly as it holds onto them. The result is of course strangulation, but alas not mutual strangulation: the ideology always wins.
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There are two types of people in the world, and I'm one of them.
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I want to leave my readers with a sequence of ideas/phrases that makes them question something they'd taken for granted. Or that confuses them to the point that they laugh, but contains one or two phrases/lines that stick in their minds.
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If a literary man puts together two words about music, one of them will be wrong.
