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John Gardner Quotes
AKA: | John Gardner |
Educated At: | DePauw University, University Of Detroit Mercy, Washington University In St. Louis |
Manner of Death: | Accident |
Nationality: | United States Of America |
Occupations: | Essayist, Non-fiction Writer, Journalist, Translator, Literary Critic |
Spouse: | Liz Rosenberg |
Total quotes: 13
John Gardner
BirthnameAKA: John Gardner
Educated At: DePauw University, University Of Detroit Mercy, Washington University In St. Louis
Manner of Death: Accident
Nationality: United States Of America
Occupations: Essayist, Non-fiction Writer, Journalist, Translator, Literary Critic
Spouse: Liz Rosenberg
Total quotes: 13
“The cold night air is reality at last: indifferent to me as a stone face carved on a high cliff wall to show that the world is abandoned.”
Tagged:
Nature's Apathy, Night
“The painful realization came that he did not feel as guilty even about the murder as he felt about his betrayal of his calling. ”
Tagged:
Conviction, Vocation
“When they had fights about Ellen's playing around— a phrase that, inexplicably, filled him with rage— it always seemed later that it was not her infidelity that brought on the fights, nor his guilt at his own unconfessed infidelity, but the gin they'd drunk. It had seemed not in the real world, as real human beings, that they attacked each other, but as brightly painted puppet-like creatures in an eerie projection, a dream-world where blows (they had often come to blows— Mickelsson holding back, doing damage enough, Ellen laying in on him with everything she had, pitifully girlish, though sometimes he came out with a puffy face) had no force, whatever their violence, and words, whatever their viciousness, would prove hard to remember later. In the morning they would be careful of each other, as of people who've been wounded and will never again be whole.”
Tagged:
Relationships
“It even crossed his mind, as he stood idly waiting, his hand resting on the wallpaper books, that maybe he ought to get a rifle. Why not? His father had taken him hunting as a boy; the memory rose in his mind with wonderful vividness— creeks, trees, sunlight, squirrels scampering along high, leafy branches, the sky bright blue, like the ceiling at his parents' church. He'd never been hunting since. Ellen had hated guns. Her irrational fear of them had gotten under his skin, her weird conviction— only now did he fully realize how weird it was— that Mickelsson was a man too dark-spirited and moody to be safe with a rifle in the house. He shook his head. Odd what a man could take for reasonable and natural, if the poison was slipped in subtly enough, over a long enough period of time.”
Tagged:
Relationships, Slowly Dying
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