/lit/ - Literature

Tonight’s quiz might not be quite as easy as usual (although having said that, I am never good at predicting what will stump people). One hundred quotations to identify, with a theme which should emerge fairly readily. Translations marked [*].

One opera libretto included. Hints on request.


The authors:

Unknown

Chinua Achebe, Dante Alighieri, Matthew Arnold, Isaac Asimov, Margaret Atwood

James Baldwin, Thomas Bernhard, Giovanni Boccaccio, J. L. Borges, John Braine, Richard Brautigan, Charlotte Bronte

James M. Cain, John Dickson Carr, John Le Carré, Raymond Carver, Raymond Chandler, Anton Chekhov, Kate Chopin, Agatha Christie, James Clavell, Joseph Conrad, Wilkie Collins

Osuma Dazei, Philip K. Dick, Charles Dickens, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Arthur Conan Doyle, Theodore Dreiser, Alan Duff, Alexandre Dumas, Lawrence Durrell

Euripedes

William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gustav Flaubert, Ian Fleming

J. W. von Goethe, Robert Graves, Graham Greene

H. Rider Haggard, Dashiell Hammett, John O’Hara, Thomas Hardy, Thomas Harris, Joseph Heller, Ernest Hemingway, Frank Herbert, James Hogg, Victor Hugo, Ted Hughes, Aldous Huxley

Henrik Ibsen, Kazuo Ishiguro

James Joyce

Ken Kesey, Stephen King, Thomas Kyd

D. H. Lawrence, Stanislaw Lem, Jack London, H. P. Lovecraft

Thomas Mann, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Saint Matthew, Cormac McCarthy, Carson McCullers, Larry McMurtry, Herman Melville, Henry Miller, Yukio Mishima

Vladimir Nabokov, Eugene O’Neill, Michael Ondaatje, Ovid

Mervyn Peake, Walker Percy

Edwin Arlington Robinson, Salman Rushdie

J. D. Salinger, Siegfried Sassoon, William Shakespeare, Neville Shute, Sophocles, John Steinbeck, Robert Louis Stevenson, August Strindberg

Alfred Lord Tennyson, J. R. R. Tolkien, Leo Tolstoy

Virgil, Kurt Vonnegut

Richard Wagner, David Foster Wallace, Evelyn Waugh, Edith Wharton, Oscar Wilde, Gene Wolfe, Virginia Woolf

1)
“Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” said the young man. “Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?”


2)
With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens . . .


3)
Ah! hapless mother, what a love was thine!

— Her ardour for the bull? What dost thou mean?

My woeful sister! Dionysius’ bride!

— What ails thee, child, bewailing thus thy kin?

Myself the third in suffering! How undone!

[*]


4)
He did not ape. He sought principles. He drew up lists of effective and fetching mannerisms, till out of many such, culled from many writers, he was able to induce the general principle of mannerism, and, thus equipped, to cast about for new and original ones of his own, and to weigh and measure and appraise them properly. In similar manner he collected lists of strong phrases, the phrases of living language, phrases that bit like acid and scorched like flame, or that glowed and were mellow and luscious in the midst of the arid desert of common speech. He sought always for the principle that lay behind and beneath. He wanted to know how the thing was done; after that he could do it for himself.


5)
“I make him feel young.”

“How?”

“I kiss him very softly and slowly like this . . . all over his face for a long time. Then I do it harder and faster. I breathe hard. He thinks I can’t control myself. I like doing that to him. He says nobody ever kissed him the way I do.”

“I’ll bet he’s right.”

“I’ll bet nobody ever kissed you the way I can.”

“Do it now.”

“His wife wouldn’t know how. He’s never had a modern girl friend. I slip my hands inside his shirt and rub my fingers against his chest. His hair is soft and curly. Like a kitten. Nobody ever did that to him before. He’s fifty-five years old. I tickle him with my tongue. Soon I’ll let him touch these.”

“Come outside.”

“He doesn’t know I’ll let him if he wants to. I talk a little dirty to him. He likes it. So do you. Don’t you like my nipples? If you’d go slow once in a while, you’d see how pointy and hard they get. I like to talk dirty too. I love to say words like nipples, pointy, and hard. And tongue.”

I had my hard-on again.

“Come outside.”

“Well, hello, dear,” she greeted, winking at it. “Good to see you again.”

6)
They lunched *Chez Espinosa*, the second most expensive restaurant in London; it was full of oilcloth and Lalique glass, and the sort of people who liked that sort of thing went there continually and said how awful it was.

‘I hope you don’t mind coming to this awful restaurant,’ said Balcairn. ‘The truth is that I get meals free if I mention them occasionally in my page. Not drinks, unfortunately . . . ’


7)
“He seemed kind. He wanted me, anyhow. What was I to do with mother and that poor boy? Eh? I said yes. He seemed good-natured, he was freehanded, he had money, he never said anything. Seven years — seven years a good wife to him, the kind, the good, the generous, the — And he loved me. Oh yes. He loved me till I sometimes wished myself — Seven years. Seven years a wife to him. And do you know what he was, that dear friend of yours? Do you know what he was? He was a devil!”


8)
Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came forth sweetness.


9)
Even as a child she had some quality that made people look at her, then look away, then look back at her, troubled at something foreign. Something looked out of her eyes, and was never there when one looked again.


10)
Silence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.

This was a demoniac laugh — low, suppressed, and deep — uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought at first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside — or rather, crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again to cry out, “Who is there?”

11)
His excitement filled him. Now at last he could satisfy his curiosity as to how well a barbarian would die when put to torment. And he had eleven men, eleven different tests, to experiment with. He never questioned why the agony of others pleasured him. He only knew that it did and therefore it was something to be sought and enjoyed.


12)
He touched the Sten barrel and the hand let go of him. A pause among the voices. He was there to translate the guns.

‘Twelve-millimetre Breda machine gun. From Italy.’

He pulled back the bolt, inserted his finger to find no bullet, pushed it back and pulled the trigger. Puht. ‘Famous gun,’ he muttered.


13)
“This is tearing me up inside.” Moving up beside me, she pressed my hand fiercely into her belly. “I’m empty. I lie awake at nights aching with emptiness. I wake up and I’m alone and I walk round Warley and I’m alone and I talk with people and I’m alone and I look at his face when I’m home and it’s dead — when he smiles or laughs or looks thoughtful, it’s as if different strings were being pulled or different lights had been ordered — ”


14)
Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.


15)
AUGUST 15.

There can be no doubt that in this world nothing is so indispensable as love. I observe that Charlotte could not lose me without a pang, and the very children have but one wish; that is, that I should visit them again to-morrow. I went this afternoon to tune Charlotte's piano. But I could not do it, for the little ones insisted on my telling them a story; and Charlotte herself urged me to satisfy them. I waited upon them at tea, and they are now as fully contented with me as with Charlotte; and I told them my very best tale of the princess who was waited upon by dwarfs.

[*]

16)
When I first saw her, she was embroidering by the light of a candle brightened by a silver reflector; but she must have felt my eyes upon her. It would gratify me now to say there was no fear in her face, yet it would not be true. There was terror there, though controlled nearly to invisibility.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ve brought your food.”


17)
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.


18)
‘ . . . The race was marred by the large number of accidents and casualties. Of the eighteen starters only three finished the race of eighty laps, six of the drivers being killed outright in accidents and many more removed to hospital with more or less severe injuries. The winner, Mr. John Osborne, drove cautiously for the first half of the race and at the fortieth lap was three laps behind the leading car, driven by Mr. Sam Bailey. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bailey crashed at the corner known as The Slide, and from that point onwards the Ferrari put on speed. At the sixtieth lap the Ferrari was in the lead, the field by that time being reduced to five cars, and thereafter Mr. Osborne was never seriously challenged . . . ’


19)
“What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here — take it,” and I thrust it towards him.

“I would prefer not to,” said he.


20)
She talked along, and there was nothing I could do but go along with it. But you sell as many people as I do, you don’t go by what they say. You feel it, how the deal is going. And after a while I knew this woman didn’t care anything about the Automobile Club. Maybe the husband did, but she didn’t. There was something else, and this was nothing but a stall. I figured it would be some kind of a proposition to split the commission, maybe so she could get a ten-spot out of it without the husband knowing. There’s plenty of that going on. And I was just wondering what I would say to her. A reputable agent don’t get mixed up in stuff like that, but she was walking around the room, and I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. Under those blue pajamas was a shape to set a man nuts, and how good I was going to sound when I started explaining the high ethics of the insurance business I didn’t exactly know.

But all of a sudden she looked at me, and I felt a chill creep straight up my back and into the roots of my hair. “Do you handle accident insurance?”

21)
Call it a good marriage —
For no one ever questioned
Her warmth, his masculinity,
Their interlocking views;
Except one stray graphologist
Who frowned in speculation
At her h’s and her s’s,
His p’s and w’s.


22)
Richard had not been born in Maryland, but he was working here, the summer that she met him, as a grocery clerk. It was 1919, and she was one year younger than the century. He was twenty-two, which seemed a great age to her in those days. She noticed him at once because he was so sullen and only barely polite. He waited on folks, her aunt said, furiously, as though he hoped the food they bought would poison them. Elizabeth liked to watch him move; his body was very thin, and beautiful, and nervous — *high-strung*, thought Elizabeth, wisely. He moved exactly like a cat, perpetually on the balls of his feet, and with a cat’s impressive, indifferent aloofness, his face closed, in his eyes no light at all . . .


23)
Repairs. George B. Wilson. Cars bought and sold.


24)
“You think I wuh-wuh-wuh-*want* to stay in here? You think I wouldn’t like a con-con-vertible and a guh-guh-girl friend? But did you ever have people l-l-laughing at you? No, because you're so b-big and so *tough*! Well, I’m not big and tough. Neither is Harding. Neither is F-Fredrickson. Neither is Suh-Sefelt. Oh—oh, you—you t-talk like we stayed in here because we liked it! Oh—it’s n-no use . . . ”


25)
She was slim and quite tall in a white linen tailormade with a black and white polka-dotted scarf around her throat. Her hair was the pale gold of a fairy princess. There was a small hat on it into which the pale gold hair nestled like a bird in its nest. Her eyes were cornflower blue, a rare color, and the lashes were long and almost too pale. She reached the table across the way and was pulling off a white gauntleted glove and the old waiter had the table pulled out in a way no waiter ever will pull a table out for me. She sat down and slipped the gloves under the strap of her bag and thanked him with a smile so gentle, so exquisitely pure, that he was damn near paralyzed by it. She said something to him in a very low voice. He hurried away, bending forward. There was a guy who really had a mission in life.

I stared. She caught me staring. She lifted her glance half an inch and I wasn’t there any more. But wherever I was I was holding my breath.

26)
‘They stole my bank account,’ Gloria said.

After a time he realized, from her measured, lucidly stated narration, that no ‘they’ existed. Gloria unfolded a panorama of total and relentless madness, lapidary in construction. She had filled in all the details with tools as precise as dental tools. No vacuum existed anywhere in her account. He could find no error, except of course for the premise, which was that everyone hated her, was out to get her, and she was worthless in every respect. As she talked she began to disappear. He watched her go; it was amazing. Gloria, in her measured way, talked herself out of existence word by word.


27)
A comedy? fie! comedies are fit for common wits;
But to present a kingly troupe withall,
Give me a stately-written tragedy, —
*Tragedia cothurnata,* fitting kings,
Containing matter, and not common things!


28)
He breathed heavily, and it was said that, when he slept, his wives and children in their houses could hear him breathe. When he walked, his heels hardly touched the ground and he seemed to walk on springs, as if he was going to pounce on somebody. And he did pounce on people quite often. He had a slight stammer and whenever he was angry and could not get his words out quickly enough, he would use his fists. He had no patience with unsuccessful men. He had had no patience with his father.


29)
“ . . . We treated each other decently over six months of shelling each other. He was a gentleman doing his job and I bore him no malice. I said to him: ‘Look here, we’re enemies now and I’ll fight you with all I’ve got. But when this wretched business is over, we shan’t have to be enemies any more and we’ll have a drink together.’ Wretched thing is, this treaty is making a liar out of me. I mean to say, I told him we wouldn’t be enemies once it was all over. But how can I look him in the face and tell him that’s turned out to be true?”


30)
Millionly-whored, without womb,
Her heart already rubbish,
Watching the garret death come,
This thirty year old miss

Walked in park pastoral
With bird and bee but no man
Where children were catching armsful
Of the untouched sun.

31)
There was only one boy at Mr. Witch's class who kept always the upper hand of me in every part of education. I strove against him from year to year, but it was all in vain; for he was a very wicked boy, and I was convinced he had dealings with the Devil.


32)
‘But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.’


33)
She seemed all contradiction. She was short, and of sturdy figure, with a broad face, rather high cheekbones, and a shiny skin: yet Rampole had a curious impression that she could have been beautiful if she had tried. Her dark brown hair was coiled loosely over her ears, and she wore the plainest of dark dresses slashed with white across the breast: yet she did not look dowdy.

Poise, strength, carriage, what? The word ‘electric’ is meaningless, yet it conveys the wave that came with her; something of crackle and heat and power, like a blow.


34)
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.


35)
Pombal drove a comb through his dark hair with a laborious impatience and then consulted his watch. “*Merde*,” he said, “I am going to be retarded again.”

Pursewarden gave a shriek of delight. They adventured freely in each other’s languages, rejoicing like schoolboys in the mistakes which cropped up among their conversations. Each blunder was greeted with a shout, was turned into a war-cry. Pursewarden hopped with pleasure and shouted happily above the hissing of the water: “Why not stay in and enjoy a nice little *nocturnal emission* on the short hairs?” (Pombal had described a radio broadcast thus the day before and had not been allowed to forget it.) He made a round face now to express mock annoyance. “‘I did *not* say it” he said.

“You bloody well did.”

“I did not say ‘the short hairs’ but the ‘short undulations’ — *des ondes courtes*.”

“Equally dreadful. You *Quai d’Orsay* people shock me. Now my French may not be perfect, but I have never made a — ”

“If I begin with your mistakes — ha! ha!”

Pursewarden danced up and down in the bath, shouting “Nocturnal emissions on the short hairs”. Pombal threw a rolled towel at him and lumbered out of the bathroom before he could retaliate effectively.

36)
“After many tears an unwritten contract was drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna gave me a free hand with the maidservants, but only with her secret knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of our class; sixthly, in case I — which God forbid — should be visited by a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She was a sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that’s where the trouble came in.”

[*]


37)
Oh go not yet, my love,
The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven above,
And the waves climb high and fast.


38)
Now I am burning your child, Thea! — Burning it, curly-locks! Your child and Eilert Lovborg’s. I am burning — I am burning your child.

[*]


39)
He had an attractive face, muscular, and a stubborn line to his thin mouth. His eyes were brown and small; Irish, some said. It was hard to place Leamas. If he were to walk into a London club the porter would certainly not mistake him for a member; in a Berlin night club they usually gave him the best table. He looked like a man who could make trouble, a man who looked after his money; a man who was not quite a gentleman.


40)
“I told you that I would not allow you to receive your lover in this house.”

“I had to see him to . . . ”

She stopped, not finding a reason.

“I do not enter into the details of why a woman wants to see her lover.”

“I meant, I only . . . ” she said, flushing hotly. This coarseness of his angered her, and gave her courage. “Surely you must feel how easy it is for you to insult me?” she said.

“An honest man and an honest woman may be insulted, but to tell a thief he’s a thief is simply *la constatation d’un fait*.”

“This cruelty is something new I did not know in you.”

“You call it cruelty for a husband to give his wife liberty, giving her the honorable protection of his name, simply on the condition of observing the proprieties: is that cruelty?”

“It’s worse than cruel — it’s base, if you want to know!”

[*]

41)
He fully shared the opinion of those extreme minds which attribute to human law I know not what power of making, or, if the reader will have it so, of authenticating, demons, and who place a Styx at the base of society. He was stoical, serious, austere; a melancholy dreamer, humble and haughty, like fanatics. His glance was like a gimlet, cold and piercing. His whole life hung on these two words: watchfulness and supervision. He had introduced a straight line into what is the most crooked thing in the world; he possessed the conscience of his usefulness, the religion of his functions, and he was a spy as other men are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands!

[*]


42)
The company, dispers’d, to converts ride,
And seek the homely cots, or mountain’s hollow side.
The rapid rains, descending from the hills,
To rolling torrents raise the creeping rills.
The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides,
One common cavern in her bosom hides.

[*]


43)
“You have taken it into your head that your mother dislikes your play, and the thought of it has excited you, and all. Keep calm; your mother adores you.”

“She loves me, loves me not; loves — loves me not; loves — loves me not! You see, she doesn’t love me, and why should she? She likes life and love and gay clothes, and I am already twenty-five years old; a sufficient reminder to her that she is no longer young. When I am away she is only thirty-two, in my presence she is forty-three, and she hates me for it.”

[*]


44)
He did not shine in company; he had not very much to say for himself; he was a reserved man, with a broad, overhanging, watchful head, that particular kind of dull red colour in his cheeks which is rather stale than fresh, and a somewhat uneasy expression about his coat-cuffs, as if they were in his confidence, and had reasons for being anxious to hide his hands.


45)
Terri said the man she lived with before she lived with Mel loved her so much he tried to kill her. Then Terri said, “He beat me up one night. He dragged me round the living room by my ankles. He kept saying, ‘I love you, I love you, you bitch.’ He went on dragging me around the living room. My head kept knocking on things.” Terri looked around the table. “What do you do with love like that?”

46)
When he woke far later to the north a desert city was passing under the wing and sliding off into the darkness like the Crab Nebula. A cast of stones upon a jeweler’s blackcloth. Her hair was like gossamer. He wasnt sure what gossamer was. Her hair was like gossamer.


47)
“Know then, I am the one who held both keys
Of Frederick’s heart, and turned them, locking deep
And then again unlocking with an ease

So soft that from his secrets I could keep
Most other men. My glorious office claimed
Devotion so intense it lost me sleep

And life. The ruthless Jezebel who aimed
Adulterous eyes at Caesar’s house – she, chief
Prevailing bane, the vice of courts, inflamed

The world against me with a false belief,
Which so antagonized Augustus, all
My joyful honours turned to dismal grief.”

[*]


48)
He knew by name, and could greet personally with a “Well, old fellow,” hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to do so. He had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship, which improved from the “How do you do?” addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attachés, who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the “Why, old man, how are you?” which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly.


49)
Before marriage she thought herself in love; but the happiness that should have followed this love not having come, she must, she thought, have been mistaken.

[*]


50)
The ideal drop is from an aircraft, your muscles relaxed, your pilot puzzled, your packed parachute shuffled off, cast off, shrugged off — farewell, *shootka* (little chute)! Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth’s green seesaw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body’s obliteration in the Lap of the Lord.

51)
I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for instance, than the following:—

“The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone.”

All true, you see. But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first sentence! Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in that blank ten minutes?


52)
Mighty timber pile up for me
On the bank of the river on high!
Bright and fierce kindle a fire,
And the corpse of the noblest consume.

Bring me his steed,
That together with me he may follow his lord:
To share in the hero’s holiest honour
My body itself demands.

[*]


53)
Eloise Mathews and Ned Beaumont were alone in the large ground-floor room, sitting, in chairs a few feet apart, with the fireplace in front of them. She was bent forward, looking with tragic eyes at the last burning log. His legs were crossed. One of his arms was hooked over the back of his chair. He smoked a cigar and watched her surreptitiously.

The stairs creaked and her husband came half-way down them. He was fully clothed except that he had taken off his collar. His necktie, partially loosened, hung outside his vest. He said: “Darling, won’t you come to bed? It’s midnight.”

She did not move.


54)
“And you, my good Duke, my precious Duke, you must remember this tooth.” He held it up between thumb and forefinger. “It will be all that remains to you.”


55)
. . . Then, first complaining much in low murmurs, they determine, in the silent night, to try to deceive their keepers, and to steal out of doors; and when they have left the house, to quit the buildings of the city as well: but that they may not have to wander, roaming in the open fields, to meet at the tomb of Ninus, and to conceal themselves beneath the shade of a tree. There was there a lofty mulberry tree, very full of snow-white fruit, quite close to a cold spring. The arrangement suits them; and the light, seeming to depart but slowly, is buried in the waters, and from the same waters the night arises.

[*]

56)
Your father, your Ladyship: didn’t you ever love your father?

Very much. But I must have hated him too. Without realizing, I must have done. He brought me up to despise my own sex, to be half woman, half man. Who’s to blame for all this? My father? My mother? Myself? If I have a self. Everything I think, *he* gave me; everything I feel, *she* gave me; even this latest thing, that all human beings are equal, that came from my fiancé — and look what I think of him!

[*]


57)
Singer left his luggage in the middle of the station floor. Then he walked to the shop. He greeted the jeweler for whom he worked with a listless turn of his hand. When he went out again there was something heavy in his pocket.


58)
This woman did not say, “I feel so unhappy” in so many words, but something like a silent current of misery an inch thick flowed over the surface of her body. When I lay next to her my body was enveloped in her current, which mingled with my own harsher current of gloom like a “withered leaf settling to rest on the stones at the bottom of a pool”. I had freed myself from fear and uneasiness.

It was entirely different from the feeling of being able to sleep soundly which I had experienced in the arms of those idiot-prostitutes (for one thing, the prostitutes were cheerful); the night I spent with that criminal's wife was for me a night of liberation and happiness. (The use of so bold a word, affirmatively, without hesitation, will not, I imagine, recur in these notebooks.)

[*]


59)
It was good to be back at my shack, but there was a note on the door from Margaret. I read the note and it did not please me and I threw it away, so not even time could find it.


60)
When it was time, Sir Guillaume sat down to table with his wife and the viands came; but he ate little, being hindered in thought for the ill deed he had committed. Presently the cook sent him the ragout, which he caused set before the lady, feigning himself disordered that evening and commending the dish to her amain. The lady, who was nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding it good, ate it all; which when the knight saw, he said to her, ‘Wife, how deem you of this dish?’ ‘In good sooth, my lord,’ answered she, ‘it liketh me exceedingly.’ Whereupon, ‘So God be mine aid,’ quoth Roussillon; ‘I do indeed believe it you, nor do I marvel if that please you, dead, which, alive, pleased you more than aught else.’ The lady, hearing this, hesitated awhile, then said, ‘How? What have you made me eat?’

[*]

61)
“I’ve walked the earth in my pride all these years. If that’s lost, then let the rest be lost with it. There’s certain things my vanity won’t abide.”


62)
She saw now that there was nothing to be excited about — she had returned to her normal view of life. Tomorrow would not be so difficult after all: she felt sure that she would have the strength to meet it. She did not quite remember what it was that she had been afraid to meet, but the uncertainty no longer troubled her. She had been unhappy, and now she was happy — she had felt herself alone, and now the sense of loneliness had vanished.


63)
‘Hail, Nienor, daughter of Hurin. We meet again ere the end. I give thee joy that thou hast found thy brother at last. And now thou shalt know him: a stabber in the dark, treacherous to foes, faithless to friends, and a curse unto his kin, Turin son of Hurin! But the worst of all his deeds thou shalt feel in thyself.’


64)
Of all these Thebans none so deems but thou.

— These think as I, but bate their breath to thee.

Hast thou no shame to differ from all these?

— To reverence kith and kin can bring no shame.

Was his dead foeman not thy kinsman too?

— One mother bare them and the self-same sire.

Why cast a slur on one by honoring one?

— The dead man will not bear thee out in this.

[*]


65)
Where the shadow of the bridge fell I could see down for a long way, but not as far as the bottom. When you leave a leaf in water a long time after a while the tissue will be gone and the delicate fibers waving slow as the motion of sleep. They dont touch one another, no matter how knotted up they once were, no matter how close they lay once to the bones. And maybe when He says Rise the eyes will come floating up too, out of the deep quiet and the sleep, to look on glory.

66)
“This strikes you as *funny*?”

She raised her arms lazily. “It’s all so simple, that’s all. It solves so much for so many, so simply.”

And she went strolling up among the petrified thousands, still laughing. She paused about midway up the slope and faced me. She called down to me, “Would you wish any of these alive again, if you could? Answer me quickly . . . ”
67)
Isao looked around for an entrance. A stairway of two or three stone steps led up from the garden to a doorway. He saw a faint light coming from the crevices of the door. The door was secured with only a metal latch. Isao took his dagger out from his overcoat and then threw off the coat, letting it fall to the soft ground in the darkness. At the foot of the stone steps he drew the dagger and discarded its sheath. The naked blade, as though giving off light of its own, shone pale.

[*]


68)
Hello, leedle Don, leedle monkey-face! Don’t be a fool! Buy me a trink!

Sure, I will, Hugo! Tomorrow! Beneath the willow trees!


69)
He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta’s friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta.

[*]


70)
Now when you kick off, boy, I want a seventy-yard boot, and get right down the field under the ball, and when you hit, hit low and hit hard, because it’s important, boy.

66)
“This strikes you as *funny*?”

She raised her arms lazily. “It’s all so simple, that’s all. It solves so much for so many, so simply.”

And she went strolling up among the petrified thousands, still laughing. She paused about midway up the slope and faced me. She called down to me, “Would you wish any of these alive again, if you could? Answer me quickly . . . ”


67)
Isao looked around for an entrance. A stairway of two or three stone steps led up from the garden to a doorway. He saw a faint light coming from the crevices of the door. The door was secured with only a metal latch. Isao took his dagger out from his overcoat and then threw off the coat, letting it fall to the soft ground in the darkness. At the foot of the stone steps he drew the dagger and discarded its sheath. The naked blade, as though giving off light of its own, shone pale.

[*]


68)
Hello, leedle Don, leedle monkey-face! Don’t be a fool! Buy me a trink!

Sure, I will, Hugo! Tomorrow! Beneath the willow trees!


69)
He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta’s friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta.

[*]


70)
Now when you kick off, boy, I want a seventy-yard boot, and get right down the field under the ball, and when you hit, hit low and hit hard, because it’s important, boy.

71)
He could not stop himself. He knelt forward on his knees, while the moments melted, one into the next. He grew more rigid. The tiny, infinitely remote figure was moving across the sun toward the crag’s black edge. Impotently, he watched, his jaw thrust forward and a cold sweat broke across his bony brow, for he knew himself to be in the presence of Sorrow — and an interloper upon something more personal and secret than he had the right to watch. And yet impersonal. For in the figurette was the personification of all pain, taking, through sliding time, its final paces.


72)
“ . . . Are you not the soldier Fernand who deserted on the eve of the battle of Waterloo? Are you not the Lieutenant Fernand who served as guide and spy to the French army in Spain? Are you not the Captain Fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, Ali? And have not all these Fernands, united, made Lieutenant-General, the Count of Morcerf, peer of France?”

[*]


73)
. . . . the air
Is freshen’d by the leaping stream, which throws
Eternal showers of spray on the moss’d roots
Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots
Of ivy-plants, and fragrant hanging bells
Of hyacinths, and on late anemones,
That muffle its wet banks: but glade,
And stream, and sward, and chestnut trees,
End here: Etna beyond, in the broad glare
Of the hot noon, without a shade,
Slope behind slope, up to the peak, lies bare;
The peak, round which the white clouds play.


74)
“I thank thee, most gracious Queen and royal sister, for the loving-kindness thou hast shown me from my youth up, and especially in that thou hast been pleased to give my person and my fate as a gift to the Lord Incubu — the King that is to be. May prosperity, peace and plenty deck the life-path of one so merciful and so tender, even as flowers do. Long mayst thou reign, O great and glorious Queen, and hold thy husband’s love in both thy hands, and many be the sons and daughters of thy beauty.”


75)
He did not want to die. Life was good. The sun hot. Only human beings — what did THEY want?

76)
How strange and awful it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how delicious! She felt like some new-born creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that it had never known. The foamy wavelets curled up to her white feet, and coiled like serpents about her ankles. She walked out. The water was chill, but she walked on.


77)
“That’s one for the medical journal, George,” he said. “Doing a Caesarian with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders.”

Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.

“Oh, you’re a great man, all right,” he said.

“Ought to have a look at the proud father. They’re usually the worst sufferers in these little affairs,” the doctor said. “I must say he took it all pretty quietly.”


78)
Potential. It popped up in her head, an old familiar word, concept she’d latched onto. From a magazine it was; about everyone having the right — the right, it said — to realise their potential. POTENTIAL.

Then her breathing quickened. In and out in and out, rapider and rapider.

It sat there in her mind as clear as a neon sign. Like the McCLUTCHY’S one. No need for on/off blinking. Not when it was what everyone knew. No need to blink on and off.

Then she jumped.


79)
She was fading in his eyes, as the last of his thoughts trickled away.

But before she faded completely, one last fugitive thought came to him and rested for a moment on his mind before everything stopped.

“Little Miss,” he whispered, too low to be heard.


80)
Piteous, unforgettable sight! He staggered, or tottered, while the mountains played ball with the sound of his shot, a few steps backward, flinging out his legs jerkily; executed a right turn with his whole body, and fell with his face in the snow.

[*]

81)
“How did you know where I was?”

That made her think. When she smiled — her lips were so dark that when she ate sour cherries you couldn’t tell — she showed the tips of her teeth.

“I’ve no idea. Isn’t that funny? You were asleep when I came in, but I didn’t wake you up. I tried not to, because you get grumpy. Grumpy and whiny,” she said, bouncing my hand up energetically to the rhythm of her words.

“Were you down below?”

“Yes. I left — it’s cold there.”

She let go of my hand. Lying down, she tossed her head back so all her hair spilled to one side, and she glanced at me with the half-smile that only had stopped irritating me when I fell in love with her.

[*]


82)
“I suspect that what happened came as a result of too much cheap whiskey, of which Grady had laid in a generous supply, unbeknownst to me, and a curious condition which the old-timers call cabin fever. Do you know the term?”


83)
“There is something of the martyr about her. Her death has all the pathetic uselessness of martyrdom, all its wasted beauty. But, as I was saying, you must not think I have not suffered. If you had come in yesterday at a particular moment — about half-past five, perhaps, or a quarter to six — you would have found me in tears. Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion.”


84)
He never stoops to enumerations, catalogs. I can still recite many hexameters from that profound poem titled “Tse Yang, Painter of Tigers”, which is virtually striped with tigers, piled high with transversal, silent tigers, riddled through and through with tigers. Nor shall I ever forget the soliloquy “Rosenkranz Talks with the Angel”, in which a sixteenth-century London moneylender tries in vain, as he is dying, to exculpate himself, never suspecting that the secret justification for his life is that he has inspired one of his clients (who has seen him only once, and has no memory even of that) to create the character Shylock.

[*]


85)
What had she been thinking of as the car sailed off the bridge, then hung suspended in the afternoon sunlight, glinting like a dragonfly for that one instant of held breath before the plummet?

86)
He turned the envelope over. Not long ago it was her warm tongue which had sealed the flap.

He gave a sudden shrug and opened it.

It was not long. After the first few words he read it quickly, the breath coming harshly through his nostrils.

Then he threw it down on the bed as if it had been a scorpion.


87)
It was then that I began to study the mirror with mounting alarm. The slow ravages of disease are not pleasant to watch, but in my case there was something subtler and more puzzling in the background. My father seemed to notice it, too, for he began looking at me curiously and almost affrightedly. What was taking place in me? Could it be that I was coming to resemble my grandmother and uncle Douglas?


88)
Over the years his family had turned ironical and lost its gift for action. It was an honorable and violent family, but gradually the violence had been deflected and turned inward. The great grandfather knew what was what and said so and acted accordingly and did not care what anyone thought. He even wore a pistol in a holster like a Western hero and once met the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in a barbershop and invited him then and there to shoot it out in the street. The next generation, the grandfather, seemed to know what was what but he was not really so sure. He was brave but he gave much thought to the business of being brave. He too would have shot it out with the Grand Wizard if only he could have made certain it was the thing to do. The father was a brave man too and he said he didn’t care what others thought, but he did care. More than anything else, he wished to act with honor and to be thought well of by other men. So living for him was a strain. He became ironical. For him it was not a small thing to walk down the street on an ordinary September morning. In the end he was killed by his own irony and sadness and by the strain of living out an ordinary day in a perfect dance of honor.


89)
I didn’t even think a microwave oven would go on unless the door was closed.


90)
Nasseem’s eyes, hole-framed, became wider than ever.

. . . Just like his own when, a few days earlier, he had been walking the city streets, had seen the last bus of the winter arrive, painted with its colourful inscriptions — on the front, GOD WILLING in green shadowed in red; on the back, blueshadowed yellow crying THANK GOD!, and in cheeky maroon, SORRY-BYE-BYE! — and had recognized, through a web of new rings and lines on her face, Ilse Lubin as she descended . . .

91)
“You think there's some hope then?” she wearily asked.

“Are you so bitter against him?”

“I haven't any bitterness left.”

“And do you think God's likely to be more bitter than a woman?” he said with harsh insistence, but she winced away from the arguments of hope.

“Oh why, why, did he have to make such a mess of things?”


92)
. . . a body needs at least three points of support, not in a straight line, to fix its position, so Roithamer had written.

[*]


93)
All night Caroline did not sleep, until long after daylight she lay awake, hearing the heartless sounds of people going to work and going on with their lives regardless. The funny thing was, it was a nice day. Quite a nice day. That was what made her tired, and in the morning she did sleep, until near noon. She got awake and had a bath and some tea and toast and a cigarette. She felt a little better before she remembered that there was a day ahead of her — no matter how much of it had been slept through. She wanted to go to Julian, but that was just it. Julian was more in this room, more in the street where he had walked so angrily from her car yesterday, much, much more in the room downstairs where once upon a time she had become his girl — than what was lying wherever he was lying was Julian. She looked out the window, down at the street, not one bit expecting to see that he had left footprints in the street. But if the footprints had been there she would not have been surprised. The street sounded as though it would send up the sound of his heels. He always had little metal v’s put in his heels, and she never would hear that sound again, that collegiate sound, without — well, she would hear it without crying, but she would always want to cry. For the rest of her life, which seemed a long time no matter if she died in an hour, she would always be ready to cry for Julian. Not for him. He was all right now; but because of him, because he had left her, and she would not hear the sound of the little metal v’s on a hardwood floor again, nor smell him, the smell of clean white shirts and cigarettes and sometimes whisky. They would say he was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk. Yes he was. He was drunk, but he was Julian, drunk or not, and that was more than anyone else was.


94)
“Did you suggest to him that he swallow his tongue?”

“Your interrogative case often has that proper subjunctive in it. With your accent, it stinks of the lamp.”


95)
An old man, widower, unkempt of hair, in bed, with head covered, sighing: an infirm dog, Athos: aconite, resorted to by increasing doses of grains and scruples as a palliative of recrudescent neuralgia: the face in death of a septuagenarian, suicide by poison.

96)
“Did you need Gerald?” she asked one evening.

“Yes,” he said.

“Aren’t I enough for you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “You are enough for me, as far as a woman is concerned. You are all women to me. But I wanted a man friend, as eternal as you and I are eternal.”


97)
And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of blood.

[*]


98)
“I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it out.” He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I could see his quick grey eyes darting their questioning glances in every direction. Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to examine the stonework.

“This is curious,” said he.

“Yes, sir, we saw the chip on the ledge. I expect it’s been done by some passer-by.”

The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.


99)
*Done because we are too menny.*


100)
“Memorandum:— To go to the Shivering Sand at the turn of the tide. To walk out on the South Spit, until I get the South Spit Beacon, and the flagstaff at the Coast-guard station above Cobb’s Hole in a line together. To lay down on the rocks, a stick, or any straight thing to guide my hand, exactly in the line of the beacon and the flagstaff. To take care, in doing this, that one end of the stick shall be at the edge of the rocks, on the side of them which overlooks the quicksand. To feel along the stick, among the seaweed (beginning from the end of the stick which points towards the beacon), for the Chain. To run my hand along the Chain, when found, until I come to the part of it which stretches over the edge of the rocks, down into the quicksand. *And then, to pull the chain.*”

15. Sorrows of Young Werther

>>23469123
Correct. (Once the overall theme emerges, it will be clear that every quotation involves a character who relates to the theme.)

More translated works than usual this time (23), which I thought might make it harder, but we kick off with one, so maybe not.

>>23468942
32. Brave New World. One of the best quotes of all time. One of those books even I missed the point of initially
I actually got my dad to read this book recently but he's too much of a sci-fi nerd and a technophile to see the message. He just goes on about how "muh hypnopaedia isn't realistic, star trek does it more realistic" kekw

>>23468982
96. DH Lawrence Women and Love

1 is Salinger, Bananafish I think

35 is Durrell. Justine perhaps. I forget

77 is Hemingway. The first story in In Our Time

69 is Marquez. 100 Years of Solitude

23 is Fitzgerald. Gatsby

40 is Tolstoy. Anna Karenina

>>23469221
Right. John the Savage speaking of course. One of those scenes where the villain lays out his whole philosophy. A bit like O’Brien in 1984.

>>23469231

Right. Ursula and Birkin having basically the same argument they have all book.

5 is Heller. Something Happened

>>23469262

Correct.The young man being Seymour Glass.

7 is Conrad. Lord Jim

>>23469276
It is indeed the Alexandria Quartet, although not Justine. Pursewarden was based on Wyndham Lewis apparently.

19 is Melville. Bartleby

77 is Chopin. The Awakening

Hmm, gonna run out of cute anime girls if I keep answering individually. Gonna have to use the batch strategy.

>>23469278
>77 is Hemingway. The first story in In Our Time
Right. It's called "Indian Camp".

>>23469284
>69 is Marquez. 100 Years of Solitude
Correct. "Macondo" is a give-away, never mind the other names.

>>23469301
>23 is Fitzgerald. Gatsby
Right. A tough one I thought since there's so little there, but the name is a help of course.

>>23469305
>40 is Tolstoy. Anna Karenina
Correct. Anna is such a cow. Fortunately Kitty exists.

>>23469339
Lewis must have been something. Lots of writers seemed to have taken punches at him. Hemingway’s is one of the best insults of all time. Anyway, I’m going to take a break. Couldn’t find the writer I wanted to find and I’m surprised. It must be something outside the box

>>23469314
>5 is Heller. Something Happened
Right. Virginia Markowitz getting a 17-year-old Bobby Slocum all hot and bothered.

>>23469327
>7 is Conrad. Lord Jim
Correct. Winnie Verloc realizes her husband is not actually a nice guy.

>>23469340
>19 is Melville. Bartleby
Of course. A pretty famous quotation.

>>23469349
>77 is Chopin. The Awakening
Correct, assuming you meant 76.

>>23469368
>Lewis must have been something.
I vaguely remember an anecdote in Jonathan Bowden's WL lecture where someone got pissed off with WL (probably he was sleeping with their wife, or daughter, or both, or something) and hung him upside down by his cloak on a row of railings in London.

>>23469392
Have you ever read him? He’s always been on my list but I never committed. Also i possibly think you may have gotten one writer name wrong

>>23469402
To add I see a reference to a famous play, whose writer shares a last name with a writer on your list I can’t find, while the playwright isn’t on the list, unless I missed it

>>23469402
I've read a few bits and bobs. The first edition of BLAST, and The Art Of Being Ruled.

>one writer name wrong
Hmm. It's not impossible. Let's check the plays. Yes, you're right. Arthur Miller of course not Henry, assuming that was what you meant.

>>23469463
Yeah, 70 is Death of a Salesman, right? Went up and down the list like 4 times looking for Henry lol

>>23469472
>70 is Death of a Salesman, right?
Right. Yes, incorrect author names can send people off on wild-goose-chases, sorry.

24: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?

>>23469501
It’s alright. I like your quizzes and don’t spend as much time on them as I’d like to, so it was good to go up and down the list a few times

>>23469510
>24: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest?
Correct. Billy Bibbit speaking of course.

10) I want to say this is from Dracula (at the start when the solicitor is staying in the castle) except that it's in first person and refers to a house.
41) Javert from Les Miserables?
55) Pyramus and Thisbe from Metamorphoses
63) Either The Silmarillion or Children of Hurin
72) The Count of Monte Cristo

>52
Brunhilde at the funeral at the end of Gotterdammerung the final opera of Wagner Ring Cycle

>64
Antigone

I really want to say 3) is the Bachanae by Euripides but the family doesn't quite fit how I recall the play unfolding.

>>23469655
I suppose it could be Hippolytus and this is Phaedra lamenting her love for her stepson. The family fits better. Also Euripides

>>23468958
>58)
No Longer Human

I think 97 is from the Bible when Judas tries to return the silver.
47 is a guess but the translation note, poetic structure, the way the speaker is recounting his life, and Roman historical figure references led me to suspect The Inferno by Dante.

>>23469392
Sounds like something T.E. Hulme would do. He got into lots of fights, would prod women with his brass knuckles for fun - before being blown up in WWI.

>>23469599

>10) I want to say this is from Dracula (at the start when the solicitor is staying in the castle) except that it's in first person and refers to a house.
The first part of Dracula is in first-person (most of it is, being letters or journals), but there's no Bram Stoker in the authors list.

All the rest are right:

>41) Javert from Les Miserables?

>55) Pyramus and Thisbe from Metamorphoses
If it's a mulberry tree it has to be P&T.

>63) Either The Silmarillion or Children of Hurin
The Silmarillion.

>72) The Count of Monte Cristo

>>23469610

>52
>Brunhilde
>Gotterdammerung
Correct, Richard Wagner. Our one opera libretto as per the preamble.

>>23469616

>64
>Antigone
Correct, Sophocles. Creon arguing, Antigone being unbending.

>>23469672
This is correct. Phaedra bewailing her lot to her nurse.

>>23469699
>58)
>No Longer Human
Correct, Ozuma Dazei. Yozo in typical cheery form (the last sentence is a giveaway, haha). The woman is the unfortunate Tsuneko.

>>23469885

>I think 97 is from the Bible when Judas tries to return the silver.
Of course. Matthew 27:6. (I just saw

>47
>The Inferno by Dante.
Could be; some other anon might know who is speaking and where?

I would think some people must have guessed the overall theme by now, even if not earlier. The key is the characters (sometimes the ones speaking, sometimes the ones being addressed).

>>23470829
Is it suicide?

>>23468979
89 is surely Infinite Jest

>>23470863
Yes. People who are going to commit suicide, or people in the process of it, or other people remembering them after the event (depending roughly on where we are in the quiz).

Perhaps a bit macabre for a cute anime girl, but Yoshiko is too stupid to understand what's going on anyway.

>>23471120
>89 is surely Infinite Jest
Correct. James O. Incandenza, AKA Himself. Not sure how painful it would be. The brain itself feels no pain, but it might interpret what's going on in any number of ghastly ways.

>11)
Yabu from Shogun

>>23471460

>11)
>Yabu from Shogun
Correct. We have to wait about a thousand pages, but eventually he gets what's coming to him.

>>23470823
>where
Context clues again but from the theme, the forest of suicides in Hell

>>23472369
>the forest of suicides in Hell
Yes, indeed. Canto 13. The character speaking never gives his name, but that's what footnotes are for. He's Piero delle Vigne, a minister to Frederick II. He was (probably falsely) accused of treason. Frederick had him blinded (!) whereupon he (probably) committed suicide. All part of the rich tapestry of life, I guess.

>>23468967
>67)
I'm going context clues again. I recognize that this name is Japanese and there's two Japanese writers not named yet. However if I recall Kazuo is famous for writing in English instead of Japanese and this is marked translated.
So unless I am mistaken about Kazuo that leaves only Mishima.
I've only read Confessions of a Mask which I don't recall having that character or event. Golden Pavilion I think is about arson. I'm going to put my money on Sailor Who Fell From Grace based solely on that funny image in the current MS Paint thread of a Japanese man stabbing Sonic.

>>23468916
>2)
Sounds like something from Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

>>23472601
Mishima wrote lots of books.

>>23473474

>2)
>Sounds like something from Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
Correct. It's the written confession they find at the end.

>>23473877
Must be one I haven't read. Context clues only got me so far this time.

>>23468940
>27)
Is this Hamlet planning the play within a play?
>>23468958
>57)
Is this the deaf mute from Heart is a Lonely Hunter?
>>23468979
>87)
I think this is one of Lovecraft's stories where the guy learns he is descended from some terrible creature. Shadow Over Innsmouth maybe?
>>23468982
>98
I know this! It's Sherlock Holmes where the guy turned out to have killed himself in a way to look like murder to get someone falsely accused using rope and a revolver on a bridge and the river. Fuck if I recall he title but surely that description is enough.

>>23474147

>27)
>Is this Hamlet planning the play within a play?
No, it isn't, but Shakespeare did copy it when he wrote Hamlet. (Hamlet doesn't actually commit suicide, he just ponders it, so he's not technically eligible for the quiz.)

>57)
>Is this the deaf mute from Heart is a Lonely Hunter?
Correct.

>87)
>I think this is one of Lovecraft's stories where the guy learns he is descended from some terrible creature. Shadow Over Innsmouth maybe?
Right. The ending really took me by surprise:

— Hmmm, my 23&me is back . . . time to confirm those solid Anglo-Saxon credentials.
— What? 5% unknown non-European?
— Oh no, hold me Niggerman, etc
— I'm literally turning into a hideous fish-man even as I write this.
— <Buys pistol>
— Suicide is the only honourable option
— <Looks in mirror, sees pisceosity increasing>
— You know what . . . screw it.
— YO HO HO IT'S THE LIFE OF A FISH FOR ME

So it's Uncle Douglas who is the key character for the quiz, since he (unlike the narrator) actually did commit suicide.

>>23468982 (You)
>98
>I know this! It's Sherlock Holmes
Correct. The Problem Of Thor Bridge.

>where the guy
Not a guy. It's Maria Gibson, the jealous passionate wife of the client, realizing he loves the cute governess, not her.

>turned out to have killed himself in a way to look like murder to get someone falsely accused using rope and a revolver on a bridge and the river
The clue of the chip on the stone is really cool.

>>23474147

>27)
>Is this Hamlet planning the play within a play?
No, it isn't, but Shakespeare did copy it when he wrote Hamlet. Hamlet doesn't actually commit suicide, he just ponders it, so he's not technically eligible for the quiz.


>57)
>Is this the deaf mute from Heart is a Lonely Hunter?
Correct. John Singer.


>87)
>I think this is one of Lovecraft's stories where the guy learns he is descended from some terrible creature. Shadow Over Innsmouth maybe?
Right. The ending really took me by surprise:

— Hmmm, my 23&me is back . . . time to confirm those solid Anglo-Saxon credentials.
— What? 5% unknown non-European?
— Oh no, hold me Niggerman, etc
— I'm literally turning into a hideous fish-man even as I write this.
— <Buys pistol>
— Suicide is the only honourable option
— <Looks in mirror, sees pisceosity increasing>
— You know what . . . screw it.
— YO HO HO IT'S THE LIFE OF A FISH FOR ME

So it's Uncle Douglas who is the key character for the quiz, since he (unlike the narrator) actually did commit suicide.


>98
>I know this! It's Sherlock Holmes
Correct. The Problem Of Thor Bridge.

>where the guy
Not a guy. It's Maria Gibson, the jealous passionate wife of the client, realizing he loves the cute governess, not her.

>turned out to have killed himself in a way to look like murder to get someone falsely accused using rope and a revolver on a bridge and the river
The clue of the chip on the stone is really cool.

Bump

>>23474483
>Shakespeare did copy it when he wrote Hamlet
That narrows things down. Shakespeare had a few notable influences. So few that all the ones I can think of aren't listed as available authors. Except Thomas Kyd.
So Thomas Kyd who wrote Spanish Tragedy as far as I know. Surely you aren't quoting Ur-Hamlet...

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>>23475934

>Thomas Kyd
>Spanish Tragedy
Right, Hieronimo. He puts on a play-within-the-play, and casts two people he wants revenge on as people who get stabbed, then in the performance, they get stabbed for real. So a bit more vigorous than the Hamlet form of it. But Hieronimo doesn't go in for all this weak-minded vacillation.

bump

Bump.