Hospital Blood Night (The Bluesman Book 4)

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  1. American Book Review :: Best Last Lines from Novels
  2. Killer of Monsters
  3. The Bluesman

The river, the meadow, the cliff and cloud. The princess calls, but there is no one, now, to hear her. What exists, though, is the memory of events known and imagined, and the use of words to continue the memory through centuries, despite or with the Gravity Star, to a future when today, our Now, will be known as our past has been known as Ancient Springtime, while we, who treasure the Memory Flower, are the housekeepers of Ancient Springtime. What matters is that I have what I gave; nothing is completely taken; we meet in the common meeting place in the calm of stone, the frozen murmurs of life, squamata, sauria, serpentes ; in the sanctuary.

She was seventy-five and she was going to make some changes in her life. I am looking now into a mirror, watching Father die. Behind me my son and daughter stand, also watching Father die. She came over, and it occurred to him that he would like to try something a little theatrical, just kneel there quietly with his arms protectively draped around his wife and child. Friedman, Stern No one remembers the whole story. Margaret Sayers Peden.


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Alfred MacAdam and Carlos Fuentes. He was the only person caught in the collapse, and afterward, most of his work was recovered too, and it is still spoken of, when it is noted, with high regard, though seldom played. Gaddis, The Recognitions So I mean listen I got this neat idea hey, you listening? You listening …? He came lightly down the metal steps into balmy air and diesel fumes, and feeling in himself the potent allegiance of fate, he pushed open the door to the lobby, where unkempt sleepers slumped upright on the benches.

You have fallen into art—return to life —William H.

Meanwhile carry on without complaining. No arm with armband raised on high. No more booming bands, no searchlit skies. Or shall I, like the rivers, rise? Is rising wise? He took possession of this earth, theirs; one of them. Over in England they were married and lived happily ever after. On the whole he was well satisfied with his day.

He fell asleep almost at once in the yellow woolen nightshirt. She walked rapidly in the thin June sunlight towards the worst horror of all. Everything had gone right with me since he had died, but how I wished there existed someone to whom I could say that I was sorry. His body jolted backward, jolted the floorboards, and Ella Mae Waterson screamed, but Robert Ford only looked at the ceiling, the light going out of his eyes before he could say the right words.

Ford Always alone, apart, somehow solitary, Tristan is buried up in Alberta. The sun in the evening. The moon at dawn. The still voice. I—I myself—I was in love—with—Priscilla! Within the cabin, nothing could be heard. The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain. He could feel his heart beating against the pine needle floor of the forest. The old man was dreaming about the lions. And the question haunts me—will I, can I, after my knowledge of these things, still hear the sounds of song?

Hinton, Rumble Fish She turned on a lamp, checked her appointment book, sorted the magazines in the waiting room, refilled the Kleenex supply, plumped the pillows on her sofa, and then sat down in her chair, ready. Homes, In a Country of Mothers Looking at that gentle, happy throng of clean innocent faces and soft graceful limbs, listening to the ceaseless, artless babble of chatter rising, perhaps God could have picked out from among them which was Emily; but I am sure that I could not.

So much of life in its meshes! She called in her soul to come and see. Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east …. But in the world according to Garp, we are all terminal cases.

Newman instinctively turned to see if the little paper was in fact consumed; but there was nothing left of it. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.

She walked him away with her, however, as if she had given him now the key to patience. Isadora drifted toward rest, nestled snugly beside me, where she would remain all night while we, forgetful of ourselves, gently crossed the Flood, and countless seas of suffering. But that was just a story, something that people will tell themselves, something to pass the time it takes for the violence inside a man to wear him away, or to be consumed itself, depending on who is the candle and who is the light.

My love for my children makes me glad that I am what I am and keeps me from desiring to be otherwise; and yet, when I sometimes open a little box in which I still keep my fast yellowing manuscripts, the only tangible remnants of a vanished dream, a dead ambition, a sacrificed talent, I cannot repress the thought that, after all, I have chosen the lesser part, that I have sold my birthright for a mess of pottage. One day one of their number would write a book about all this, but none of them would believe it, because none of them would remember it that way.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead. Willa and Edwin Muir. I am the author of Peter Prince. Above the farm, a moon bright as butter silvers the night as Annie holds the door open for me. Kinsella, Shoeless Joe A photograph of his scrotum, the size of the biggest collective farm pumpkin, is also reprinted in foreign medical books, wherever elephantiasis elephantiasis nostras is mentioned, and as a moral for writers that to write one must have more than big balls.

Diska Mikic-Mitchell. All of them, except Phineas, constructed at infinite cost to themselves these Maginot Lines against this enemy they thought they saw across the frontier, this enemy who never attacked that way—if he ever attacked at all; if he was indeed the enemy. I spoke loudly and incessantly like the peasants and then like the city folk, as fast as I could, enraptured by the sounds that were heavy with meaning, as wet snow is heavy with water, confirming to myself again and again and again that speech was now mine and that it did not intend to escape through the door which opened onto the balcony.

Going along the sidewalk, dragging my tail. The others listened with interest, their naked genitals staring dully, sadly, listlessly at the yellow sand. Michael Henry Heim. Lawrence, The Rainbow John Thomas says good-night to lady Jane, a little droopingly, but with a hopeful heart.

Why should you! Lawrence, Women in Love He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers But not everything fails. Standing on the backstairs of the Museum, looking up and down the river, you can believe, like the ancient Greek, that everything flows. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning. And behold the Geomancer, whose name measures the Valley, who shaped the hills and helped me sink half California, who went on the Salt Journey, caught the Train, and walked every step with Grey Bull—Heya Heggaia, han es im!

Amoud gewakwasur, yeshou gewakwasur. Le Guin, Always Coming Home Side by side, not truly quiet but quiescent, two gnarls of human scribble, human cipher, human dream. He fell back into the net, which rocked imperceptibly above them, and he sang quietly to himself, as if that helped him negotiate his exhaustion. He was, indeed, so confidently happy that he completely forgot Fran and he did not again yearn over her, for almost two days.

We shall yet make these United States a moral nation! Adria Frizzi. Capote When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack. Somebody threw a dead dog after him down the ravine. So the blind will lead the blind, and the deaf shout warnings to one another until their voices are lost. Then for a moment in that cold Irish soul of mine, a glimmer of the joy of the flesh came toward me, rare as the eye of the rarest tear of compassion, and we laughed together after all, because to have heard that sex was time and time the connection of new circuits was a part of the poor odd dialogues which give hope to us noble humans for more than one night.

Roger Foster waited in the shadow of a long-boughed two-trunked silver maple as Dubin ran up the moonlit road, holding his half-stiffened phallus in his hand, for his wife with love. Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors or mirages would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

Gregory Rabassa. The old man who will not laugh is a fool. Als ick kan. Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger. I put my left hand on his left hand and waved my other hand in front of him and realized that both his eyes were darkened now with his wonderful and perfect sight.

He is sitting there cross-legged in front of the wall, and slowly his face bursts into a smile like flames. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining. He told me what he was going to do when he won his money then I said it was time to go tracking in the mountains, so off we went, counting our footprints in the snow, him with his bony arse clicking and me with the tears streaming down my face.

He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die. Passed and paled into the darkening land, the world to come. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery. Everyone was looking up at me and Sub, and I was not sure what I had seen but I knew what we had done. He fits himself around her, her silk pyjamas, her scent, her warmth, her beloved form, and draws closer to her. Blindly, he kisses her nape.

You will have to learn everything all over again. And thus, pursuers and pursued flew on, over an endless sea. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. The body was burned to ashes; but for many days, the head, that hive of subtlety, fixed on a pole in the Plaza, met, unabashed, the gaze of the whites; and across the Plaza looked toward St.

Something further may follow of this Masquerade. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner After all, tomorrow is another day.

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It was a fine cry—loud and long—but it had no bottom and it had no top, just circles and circles of sorrow. For now she knew what Shalimar knew: If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it. By and by all trace is gone, and what is forgotten is not only the footprints but the water too and what is down there. The rest is weather.

Not the breath of the disremembered and unaccounted for, but wind in the eaves or spring ice thawing too quickly. Just weather. Certainly no clamor for a kiss. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in Paradise. From the roof there fluttered eggs and roses. The hands shadow themselves against the wall, large, touch in huge shadows on the wall, merge, move as one huge hand toward death. I am out the door and in the potholed and rutted driveway, scrambling ahead of Taylor, greedy with wants and reckless from hope.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. But it was not until much later that I was able to get any real sleep. In a place far away from anyone or anywhere, I drifted off for a moment. Jay Rubin. Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the telephone booth.

Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again, I called out for Midori from the dead center of this place that was no place. You are part of a brand-new world. Philip Gabriel. I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art.

And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.

American Book Review :: Best Last Lines from Novels

But whatever happens, wherever the scene is laid, somebody, somewhere, will quietly set out—somebody has already set out, somebody still rather far away is buying a ticket, is boarding a bus, a ship, a plane, has landed, is walking toward a million photographers, and presently he will ring at my door—a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus.

The men began singing, a grave slow song that drifted away into the night. Soon the road was empty. All that remained of the German regiment was a little cloud of dust. Sandra Smith. McTeague remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary chittering feebly in its little gilt prison.

Could the truth be so simple? So terrible? The Reddingtons always went to a hotel where the women guests were not permitted to smoke. How they say the camera catches you, but how in point of fact you will always be able to get away. Milo Magnani glows with quiet pride, gives their thoughts back to these people, and, straightening his bowtie unnecessarily, rises to depart. Around him, throats clear, feet scrape, candy wrappers crinkle. The world grows brighter and brighter and brighter. Milo inhales and exhales.

He waits. The film begins. Time longer than rope. But apart from seeing Jokey again, my life remained an uninflected one of stalking around unbothered, until finally one day a thought succeeded in forming itself: that what had been a lifelong irritant—that I walked around the world unseen, as if invisible—had now become a strange and beautiful blessing, freeing me to live my life all over again, as if the previous one had only been a rough draft, a vague outline to be crossed over, exceeded, to be transcended, as if that life was the earthly life and this one, the California one, with myself benumbed and calm and floating inside the bubble of mall after white mall—places that were like hospitals with their piped-in music and blanching light—as if this life, finally, was the heavenly one.


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  • Hospital Blood Night: The Bluesman, Book 4 (Unabridged)?
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The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which. Have I betrayed them all again by telling the story? Or is it the other way around: would I have betrayed them if I had not told it? Nicholas de Lange. And then, in the blue light of Stockholm among zebra fumes, he grieved. Erdag M. For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing. But when that dawn will come, of our emancipation, from the fear of bondage and bondage of fear, why, that is a secret.

I watch her walk toward St Charles, cape jasmine held against her cheek, until my brothers and sisters call out behind me. Tell me how free I am. Famous next-to-last-words. Then they both looked up to the lifting sky—Lois followed their eyes—and found they were right. It was morning clear, cloudless, the oldest gift , would be morning oh six hours yet. The room, though, is still. No one has breathed. And it may be that love sometimes occurs without pain or misery.

Annie Proulx, The Shipping News Annie Proulx, Brokeback Mountain If, at least, there were granted me time enough to complete my work, I would not fail to stamp it with the seal of that Time the understanding of which was this day so forcibly impressing itself upon me, and I would therein describe men—even should that give the semblance of monstrous creatures—as occupying in Time a place far more considerable than the so restricted one allotted them in space, a place, on the contrary, extending boundlessly since, giant-like, reaching far back into the years, they touch simultaneously epochs of their lives—with countless intervening days between—so widely separated from one another in Time.

Frederick A. They were only a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin. Oedipa settled back, to await the crying of lot Why cant dogs go to Heaven? Thomas Jefferson was out of a job but that was O. Your most faithful and obedient servant, F.

De la Tour. No one watching this woman smear her initials in the steam on her water glass with her first finger, or slip cellophane packets of oyster crackers into her handbag for the sea gulls, could know how her thoughts are thronged by our absence, or know how she does not watch, does not listen, does not wait, does not hope, and always for me and Sylvie. And me! This me who is me being me and none other! It was now an African Methodist Episcopal Church. To escape into what, Marietta?

It may be as you say that this is no life, but use your enchanting, enrapturing brains: this life is as close to life as you, and I, and our child can hope to come.

Killer of Monsters

He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here. If you do, you start missing everybody. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye Middle Ages!

Castration, hypocrisy! Sebald, The Rings of Saturn ; trans. Michael Hulse. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance. Now let me say something. This is the gleaming obsidian shard I safeguard above all the others. Ecstatic, he feels the world on the edge of obliteration. He wants, even more than he wants to be alive again, to be dead with them, but he is dead with himself alone.

This is the difference between this and that. She looked up and across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously. She did not try in any way to shorten her life, but three days after Julien, she died while hugging her children. Burton Raffel. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Pieces of eight! Not by combining together, to protect injustice and cruelty, and making a common capital of sin, is this Union to be saved, —but by repentance, justice and mercy; for, not surer is the eternal law by which the millstone sinks in the ocean, than that stronger law, by which injustice and cruelty shall bring on nations the wrath of Almighty God!

This was not judgment day—only morning. Morning: excellent and fair. I dwell the longer upon this subject from the desire I have to make the society of an English YAHOO by any means not insupportable; and therefore I here entreat those who have any tincture of this absurd vice, that they will not presume to come in my sight. Come, children, let us shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.

Taking the pigtail in one of his paws, he pressed it warmly to his wet moustache. The sun arises. Gold-glowing child, it steps into the sky and sends a birth-song slanting down gray dust streets and sleepy windows of the southern town. The Author now leaves him in the hands of his readers; not as a hero, not as a man to be admired and talked of, not as a man who should be toasted at public dinners and spoken of with conventional absurdity as a perfect divine, but as a good man without guile, believing humbly in the religion which he strives to teach, and guided by the precepts which he has striven to learn.

I been there before. As soon as the Governor understood the case, he pardoned Tom at once, and the creditors sold him down the river. We were doomed to die and we were no longer linked to life by any kind of responsibility. We could be as free as the pigs who ran in the field. Those were beautiful years, beautiful autumn days. Eric Dickens. Girls walk by me carrying their invisible bouquets from fields still steeped in grace, and I look up in the manner of one who follows with his eyes the passage of a hearse, and remembers what pierces him.

The Hanemas live in Lexington, where, gradually, among people like themselves, they have been accepted, as another couple. He had made it, he was here, in Heaven. Now what? Obsolete at their own ceremony, Joan and Richard stepped back from the bench in unison and stood side by side, uncertain of how to turn, until Richard at last remembered what to do; he kissed her —John Updike, Too Far to Go So the rumors of the days when they were solid among us, gorgeous and doing evil, have flavored the name of the town in the mouths of others, and for those of us who live here have left something oblong and invisible and exciting we do not understand.

We meet it turning the corner where Hemlock meets Oak; it is there when we walk the beach in off-season and the Atlantic in its blackness mirrors the dense packed gray of the clouds: a scandal, life like smoke rising twisted into legend. With baby-boomers reaching retirement age at a rate of 10, a day, the number of lonely Americans will surely spike. Who are the lonely?

Women are lonelier than men though unmarried men are lonelier than unmarried women. African Americans are lonelier than whites though single African American women are less lonely than Hispanic and white women. The less educated are lonelier than the better educated. The unemployed and the retired are lonelier than the employed. A key part of feeling lonely is feeling rejected, and that, it turns out, is the most damaging part.

The nation ignored the crisis for a while, then panicked. Soon, people all over the country were calling for gay men to be quarantined. The disease came from a virus—HIV—that was neutralizing all the usual defenses of a discrete group of people who could be compared with each other and also with a control group of the uninfected. About half of them tested positive for the virus, and about a third of those agreed to let researchers put their lives under a microscope, answering extensive questions about drug use, sexual behavior, attitudes toward their own homosexuality, levels of emotional support, and so on.

By , around one-third of that group had developed full-blown AIDS, and slightly more than a quarter had died. He learned that the closeted man must police every piece of information known about him, live in constant terror of exposure or blackmail, and impose sharp limits on intimacy, or at least friendship.

Ariel Lee. If this state of inflamed arousal subsided quickly, it would be harmless. But if the man stayed on high alert for years at a time, then his blood pressure would rise, and the part of his immune system that fends off smaller, subtler threats, like viruses, would not do its job. And he was right. The social experience that most reliably predicted whether an HIV-positive gay man would die quickly, Cole found, was whether or not he was in the closet.

Closeted men infected with HIV died an average of two to three years earlier than out men. When Cole dosed AIDS-infected white blood cells with norepinephrine, a stress hormone, the virus replicated itself three to ten times faster than it did in non-dosed cells. What He wanted is for us not to be alone. Or rather, natural selection favored people who needed people. Humans are vastly more social than most other mammals, even most primates, and to develop what neuroscientists call our social brain, we had to be good at cooperating.

To raise our children, with their slow-maturing cerebral cortexes, we needed help from the tribe. To stoke the fires that cooked the meat that gave us the protein that sustained our calorically greedy gray matter, we had to organize night watches. But compared with our predators, we were small and weak. They came after us with swift strides. We ran in a comparative waddle. If her nervous system went into overdrive at perceiving her isolation, well, that would have just sent her scurrying home.

One of those alone-on-the-savanna moments in our modern lives occurs when we go off to college, because we have to make a whole new set of friends. The researchers then strapped blood- pressure cuffs, biosensors, and beepers onto the students. Nine times a day for seven days, they were beeped and had to fill out questionnaires. He took saliva samples to measure levels of cortisol, a hormone produced under stress.

As expected, he found the students with bodily symptoms of distress poor sleep, high cortisol were not the ones with too few acquaintances, but the ones who were unhappy about not having made close friends. These students also had higher than normal vascular resistance, which is caused by the arteries narrowing as their tissue becomes inflamed.

High vascular resistance contributes to high blood pressure; it makes the heart work harder to pump blood and wears out the blood vessels. If it goes on for a long time, it can morph into heart disease. While Cole discovered that loneliness could hasten death in sick people, Cacioppo showed that it could make well people sick—and through the same method: by putting the body in fight-or-flight mode.

The Bluesman

A famous experiment helps explain why rejection makes us flinch. It was conducted more than a decade ago by Naomi Eisenberger, a social psychologist at UCLA, along with her colleagues. She explained that physical harm simultaneously lights up another neural region as well, one whose job is to locate the ache—on an arm or leg, inside the body, and so on.

What the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex registers is the emotional fact that pain is distressing, be it social or physical. In operations performed to relieve chronic pain, doctors have lesioned, or disabled, the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex. A longitudinal study of more than 8, identical Dutch twins found that, if one twin reported feeling lonely and unloved, the other twin would report the same thing 48 percent of the time. This figure held so steady across the pairs of twins—young or old, male or female, notwithstanding different upbringings—that researchers concluded that it had to reflect genetic, not environmental, influence.

To understand what it means for a personality trait to have 48 percent heritability, consider that the influence of genes on a purely physical trait is percent. Children get the color of their eyes from their parents, and that is that. But although genes may predispose children toward loneliness, they do not account for everything that makes them grow up lonely. Fifty-two percent of that comes from the world. Evolutionary theory, which has a story for everything, has a story to illustrate how the human species might benefit from wide variations in temperament.

A group that included different personality types would be more likely to survive a radical change in social conditions than a group in which everyone was exactly alike. Imagine that, after years in which a group had lived in peace, an army of strangers suddenly appeared on the horizon. The tribe in which some men stayed behind while the rest headed off on a month-long hunting expedition the stay-at-homes may have been less adventurous, or they may just have been loners had a better chance of repelling the invaders, or at least of saving the children, than the tribe whose men had all enthusiastically wandered off, confident that everything would be fine back home.

And yet loneliness is made as well as given, and at a very early age. Not only that, but our loneliness will probably make us moody, self-doubting, angry, pessimistic, shy, and hypersensitive to criticism. Recently, it has become clear that some of these problems reflect how our brains are shaped from our first moments of life. A great deal has been written about the heartbreaking emotional and educational difficulties of these children, who grew up 20 to a nurse in Dickensian orphanages.

Last year, I visited a monkey lab in the rolling farmland of rural Maryland run by a burly and affable psychologist-turned- primatologist named Steve Suomi. Luckier monkeys had that and cloth-covered versions of the same thing to cuddle. It is remarkable what a soft cloth can do to calm an anxious baby monkey down.