Sons and Lovers

Page 69 of Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence:

(…) so much at home, the mother made a companian of Paul. The latter was unconsciously jealous of his brother, and William was jealous of him. At the same time, they were good friends.

Mrs. Morel’s intimacy with her second son was more subtle and fina, perhaps not so passionate as with her eldest. It was the rule that Paul should fetch the money on Friday afternoons. The colliers of the five pits were paid on Fridays, but not individually. All the earnings of each stall were put down to the chief butty, as contractor, and he devided the wages again, either in the public-house or in his own home. So that the children could fetch the money, school closed early on Friday afternoons. Each of the Morel children –William, then Annier, then Paul– had fetched the money on Friday afternoons, until they went themselves to work. Paul used to set off at half-past three, with a little calico bag in his pocket. Down all the paths, women, girls, and men were seen trooping to the offices.

These offices were quite handsome: a new, red-brick building, almost like a mansion, standing in its own grounds at the end of Greenhill Lane. The waiting-room was the hall, a long, bare room paved with blue brick, and having a seat all round, against the wall. Here sat the colliers in their pit-dirt. They had come up early. The women and children usually loitered about on the red gravel paths. Paul always examined the grass border, and the big grass bank, because in it grew tiny pansies and tiny forget-me-nots. There was a sound of many voices. The women had on their Sunday hats. The girls clattered loudly. Little dogs ran here and there. The green shrubs were silent all round.

Then from inside came the cry “Spinney Park–Spinney Park.” All the folk for Spinney Parktrooped inside. When it was time for Bretty to be paid, Paul went in among the crowd. The pay-room was quite small. A counter went across, deviding it into half. Behind the counter stood two men –Mr. Braithwaite and his clerk, Mr. Winterbottom. Mr. Braithwaite was large, somewhat of the stern patriarch in appearance, having a rather thin silk neckerchief, and right up to the hot summer a huge fire burned in the open gate. No window was open. Sometimes in winter the air scorched the throats of the people, coming in from the freshness. Mr. Winterbottom was rather small and fat, and very bald. He made remarks (…)

The Great Gatsby

Page 69 of The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzerald:

(…)body wants to speak to him outside. ‘All right,’ says Rosy, and begins to get up, and I pulled him down in his chair.
‘Let the bastards come in here if they want you, Rosy, but don’t you, so help me, moe outside this room.’
‘It was four o’clock in the morning then, and if we’d of raised the blinds we’d of seen daylights.’
‘Did he go?’ I asked innocently.
‘Sure he went.’ Mr Wolfshiem’s nose flashed at me indignantly. ‘He turned around in the door and says:”Don’t let that waiter take away my coffee!” Then he went out on the sidewalk, and they shot him three times in his full belly and drove away.’
‘Four of them were electrocuted,’ I said, remembering.
‘Five, with Becker.’ His nostrils turned to me in an interested way. ‘I understand you’re looking for a business gonnegtion.’
The juxtaposition of these two remarks was startling. Gatsby answered for me:
‘Oh, no,’ he exclaimed, ‘this isn’t the man.’
‘No?’ Mr Wolfshiem seemed disappointed.
‘This is just a friend. I told you we’d talk about that some other time.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Wolfshiem, ‘I had a wrong man.’
A succulent hash arrived, and Mr Wolfshiem, forgetting the more sentimental atmosphere of the old Metropole, began to eat with ferocious delicacy. His eyes, meanwhile, roved very slowly all around the room -he completed the arc by turning to inspect the people directly behind. I think that, except for my presence, he would have taken one short glance beneath our own table.
‘Look here, old sport,’ said Gatsby, leaning toward me, ‘I’m afraid I made you a little angry this morning in the car.’
There was the smile again, but this time I held out against it.
(…)

Stupeur et tremblements

Page 69 of ‘Stupeur et tremblements‘ (Fear and trembling) by Amélie Nothomb:

(…)
Je n’avais jamais recopié des colonnes de chiffres de ma vie.
- C’est quand même curieux ce handicap. Il ne faut aucune intelligence pour retranscrire des montants.
- Présisément: je crois que c’est le problème des gens de mon espèce. Si notre intelligence n’est pas sollicitée, notre cerveau s’endort. D’où mes erreurs.
Le visage de Fubuki quitta enfin son expression de combat pour adopter un étonnement amusé:
- Votre intelligence a besoin d’être sollicitée? Que c’est excentrique!
- C’est on ne peut plus ordinaire.
- Bon. Je vais réfléchir à un travail qui solliciterait l’intelligence, répéta ma supérieure qui semblait se délecter de cette façon de parler.
- Entre-temps, puis-je aller aider monsieur Unaji à corriger mes fautes?
- Surtout pas! Vous avez commis assez de dégâts comme ça!
(…)

Advice: read this book

Slow man

Page 69 of ‘Slow Man‘ by J.M. Coetzee.

(…)be with Wayne Blight, the speedy youngster behind the wheel, than with Paul Rayment, the absent-minded old geezer on the pushbike.
And what sea-change does Marijana want him to bring about anyway? Does she really expect this handsome youth, bursting with good health, to spend his evenings at home curled up with a book while his mates are out having fun? To leave the gleaming new Yamaha in the garage and catch a bus? Drago Jokic: an name from a folk-epic. The Ballad of Drago Yokic.
He clears his throat. ‘Drago, your mother has asked me to have a word with you in private.’
Marijana leaves the romm. He turns to the boy. ‘Look, I’m nothing to you, just the man your mother looks after and very grateful to her for that. But she asked me to speak to you and I agreed I would. What I want to tell you is, if I could turn back the clock to before the accident, believe me, I would. You may not think it, looking at me, but I used to lead an active life. Now I can’t even go to the shops. I have to depend on other people for the smallest thing. And it happened in a split second, out of nowhere. Well, it could happen to you just as easily. Don’t take risks with your life, son, it’s not worth it. Your mother wants you to be careful on your bike. I think you should listen to her. That’s all I’m going to say. Your mother is a good person, she loves you. Do you understand?’
If he had been asked to predict, he would have said that young Drago would sit through a lecture of this kind with his eyes cast down, picking at his cuticles, wishing the old geezer would get it over with, cursing his mother for bringing him. But it is not like that at all. Throughout his speech Drago regards him candidly, a faint, not unfriendly smile on his well-shaped lips. ‘OK,’ he says (…)

Page 69

Page 69 of ‘Saturday‘ by Ian McEwan.

(…)Now one’s been in the kitchen since he left it. On the table are his cup, Theo’s empty mineral water bottle and, beside it, the remote control. It’s still faintly surprising, this rigid fidelity of objects, sometimes reassuring, sometimes sinester. He takes the remote, turns the set on and pushes the mute button – nine o’clock bulletin is several minutes away yet – and fills the kettle. What simple accretions have brought the humble kettle to this peak of refinement: jug-shaped for efficiency, plastic fo safety, wide sprout for ease of filling, and clunky little platform to pick up the old style – the sticking tin lid, the thick back feminine socket waiting to electrocute wet hands seemed in the nature of things. But someone had thought about this carefully, and there’s no going back. The world should take note: not everything is getting worse.(…)

Advice: read this book

Following the advice of the Guardian via Kottke’s Remaindered links.