#sentences

I mean people just have a way of - y'know they'll review your record in two sentences and put you in this little stupid box that you don't want to be in. ↗

— Elliott Smith

#i #just #know #little #mean

It's not enough just to do those things anymore; what you must do instead if you want success on any large scale is either figure out a way of getting yourself associated in the audience's mind with their pieties and their sense of 'community,' i.e. ram it home that you're one of THEM; or, alternately, deck and bake yourself into an image configuration so blatant or outrageous that you become a culture myth. ↗

— Lester Bangs

#run-on-sentences #music

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. ↗

— Charlotte Brontë

#opening-lines #opening-sentences #walks #first-sentence

Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt. ↗

— Franz Kafka

#first-sentence

I've been lucky. I've met a lot of baseball people, and I've learned to value people who talk - people who talk well and in long sentences and even long paragraphs. ↗

— Roger Angell

#been #even #i #learned #long

Something's going to happen that's going to make us all pay attention at the type of sentences some people are serving and the conditions in which they are served. ↗

— Christopher Darden

#conditions #going #happen #make #pay

Pithy sentences are like sharp nails which force truth upon our memory. ↗

— Denis Diderot

#like #memory #nails #our #sentences

I write longer sentences than most of the others, maybe because I probably like Henry James more than they do. ↗

— Peter Straub

#henry #henry james #i #i write #james

Awakened by a thousand dogs, a passing truck, the tailspin of a poisoned mosquito (or, perhaps, merely the silence of my dreams), I had, before remembering who and where I was, seen only that green sun suspended in the firmament of my room (her uterus bottled in preserving fluids) and, through seconds that became millennia, millennia aeons, felt the steadfastness of my orbit around that cold glow of love, a marvelous fatal steadfastness, before my pupils dilated and shadows and unease once more defined reality, the steel box naked but for a mattress and insomnious bugs where I had lived, in a coma of heartbreak and drunkenness, the six months since Primavera's death. ↗

— Richard Calder

#death

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city. Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. ↗

— Ursula K. Le Guin

#music