The patriotic theme comes through very strong, finding its most eloquent expression in the Batesville Casket Company's "Valley Forge," designed to reflect the tugged, strong, soldierlike qualities associated with that historic theme. "Its charm lies in the warm beauty of the natural grain and finish of the finest maple hardwoods. A casket designed indeed for a soldier—one that symbolizes the solid, dependable, courageous American ideals so bravely tested at Valley Forge." For all its soldierlike qualities, it looks most comfortable, with its nice beige pillow and sheets. On the wall behind it hangs a portrait of George Washington, who is looking, as usual, rather displeased.

—Jessica Mitford, The American Way of Death

Suddenly, fifteen minutes after the prince left, Aglaya came running down to the terrace from upstairs, and in such a hurry that she did not even wipe her eyes, which were wet with tears. She came running down because Kolya arrived and brought a hedgehog. They all started looking at the hedgehog; to their questions, Kolya explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he was now walking with his comrade, another schoolboy, Kostya Lebedev, who had stayed outside and was embarrassed to come in because he was carrying an axe; that they had bought both the hedgehog and the axe from a peasant they had met. The peasant was selling the hedgehog and took fifty kopecks for it, and then they persuaded him to sell the axe as well, because it was an opportunity, and also a very good axe. Here Aglaya suddenly began pestering Kolya terribly to sell her the hedgehog at once, turned inside out, even called Kolya "dear." Kolya would not agree for a long time, but finally gave in and called Kostya Lebedev, who indeed came in carrying the axe and feeling very embarrassed. But here it suddenly turned out that the hedgehog did not belong to them at all, but to t third boy, Petrov, who had given them money to buy Schlosser's History from some fourth boy, who, being in need of money, was selling it at a bargain price; that they set out to buy Schlosser's History, but could not help themselves and bought the hedgehog, and therefore both the hedgehog and the axe belonged to that third boy, to whom they were now taking them in place of Schlosser's History. But Aglaya pestered them so much that they finally decided to sell her the hedgehog. As soon as Aglaya got the hedgehog, she put it into a wicker basket with Kolya's help, covered it with a napkin, and started asking Kolya to go at once and, without stopping anywhere, take the hedgehog to the prince on her behalf, with the request that he accept it as "a token of her profoundest respect." Kolya gladly agreed and promised to deliver it, but immediately began to pester her: "What was the meaning of the hedgehog and of such a present?" Aglaya replied that that was none of his business. He replied that he was sure it contained some allegory. Aglaya became angry and snapped at him that he was a little brat and nothing more. Kolya at once retorted that if it were not for his respect for the woman in her, and for his own convictions on top of it, he would immediately prove to her that he knew how to respond to such insults. It ended, however, with Kolya delightedly going all the same to deliver the hedgehog, and Kostya Lebedev running after him; Aglaya could not help herself and , seeing Kolya swinging the basket too hard, shouted behind him from the terrace: "Please, Kolya dearest, don't drop it!"—as if she had not just quarreled with him; Kolya stopped and, also as if he had not just been quarreling, shouted with great readiness: "No, I won't drop it, Aglaya Ivanova. Be completely assured!" and ran on at breakneck speed. After that Aglaya laughed terribly and ran to her room extremely pleased, and then was very cheerful all day.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

But the silent stranger was scarcely able to understand anything: she was a traveling German lady and did not know a world of Russian; besides that, it seems she was as stupid as she was beautiful. She was a novelty, and it was an accepted thing to invite her to certain evenings, in magnificent costume, her hair done up as if for an exhibition, and to sit her there like a lovely picture to adorn the evening, just as some people, for their evenings, borrow some painting, vase, statue, or screen from their friends for one time only.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

Everyone else was inside the cabin making dinner while my friend Sam and I tended the fire in the gathering dusk. It was a cold July evening in the north. The kind of night when all my life's decisions seemed, in retrospect, to have been good ones.

—Claire Dederer, Monsters: A Fan's Dilemma

Man was not a part of nature, he had raised himself above nature, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him impious, even though he didn't believe in God, the more it seemed to him anthropologically impious, to scatter the ashes of a human being on the fields, the rivers or the sea. A human being had a conscience, a unique, individual, and irreplaceable conscience, and thus deserved a monument, a stele, or at least an inscription—well, something that asserts and bears witness to his existence for future centuries.

—Michel Houellenbecq, The Map and the Territory

"I think I'm more or less finished with the world as narration—the world of novels and films, the world of music as well. I'm now only interested in the world as juxtaposition—that of poetry and painting."

—Michel Houellenbecq, The Map and the Territory

"Anyway, Picasso's ugly, and he paints a hideously deformed world because his soul is hideous, and that's all you can say about Picasso. There's no reason anymore to support the exhibition of his works. He has nothing to contribute, and with him there's no light, no innovation in the organization of colors or forms. I mean, in Picasso's work there's absolutely nothing that deserves attention, just an extreme stupidity and a priapic daubing that might attract a few sixtysomethings with big bank accounts."

—Michel Houellenbecq, The Map and the Territory

The question of beauty is secondary in painting: the great painters of the past were considered such when they had developed a worldview that was both coherent and innovative, which means that they always painted in the same way, using the same methods and operating procedures to transform the objects of the world into pictorial ones, in a manner that was specific to them and had never been used before.

—Michel Houellenbecq, The Map and the Territory

I drank a bottle of Falcon beer. It had a plain label. There were no boasts about choice hops and the stuff had won no medals at any international exposition but is was cold and tasted like every other beer.

—Charles Portis, The Dog of the South

I have a newspaper record of a part of that Wharton trial and it is not an official transcript but it is faithful enough. I have used it and my memories to write a good historical article that I titled, You will now listen to the sentence of the law, Odus Wharton, which is that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead dead! May God, whose laws you have broken and before whose dread tribunal you must appear, have mercy on your soul. Being a personal recollection of Isaac C. Parker, the famous Border Judge.

But the magazines of today do not know a good story when they see one. They would rather print trash. They say my article is too long and "discursive." Nothing is too long or too short either if you have a true and interesting tale and what I call a "graphic" writing style combined with education al aims.

—Charles Portis, True Grit

"He sits around in his room with the door locked and does lines and listens to this song by the Buffalo Springfield, over and over . . . you know that one? 'Something's happening here . . . what it is ain't exactly clear . . . .' It's weird. People get upset, all of a sudden they want to listen to old hippie garbage they would never listen to if they were in their right mind, when my cat died I had to go out and borrow all these Simon and Garfunkel records."

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History (ellipses in original)

It was this unreality of character, this cartoonishness if you will, which was the secret of his appeal and what finally made his death so sad. Like any great comedian, he colored his environment wherever he went; in order to marvel at his constancy you wanted to see him in all sorts of alien situations: Bunny riding a camel, Bunny babysitting, Bunny in space. Now, in death, this constancy crystallized and became something else entirely: he was an old familiar jokester cast—with surprising effect—in the tragic role.

—Donna Tartt, The Secret History

There's a period going past at the moment that may make us look as though we're in fashion.

—David Sylvian, interview, 1981

Vivien found the dress at Vince, across from her hotel at Madison and Seventy-Sixth. It was a simple shift, deliriously soft and just the right length, as in a bit too short but seemingly accidentally so, as if she were a touch taller and thinner than the intended model. It was effortless without being sloppy, editorial but in no way dressed up. With her low-tops and denim jacket, it would hit the right note, showing her off without her showing off. If the dress had come only in black, or only in navy, she wouold have gladly, almost thoughtlessly, purchased either. But unfortunately it came in both. She spent over half an hour in the dressing room switching between them, examining herself, posing, evaluating the implications, agonizing over the decision. It was amazing how the same dress in only slightly different colors could seem so different. But then again, nothing highlights difference quite like homogeneity. The black was so stark, so purely minimal. Very now, very New York. The navy would have seemed the same in isolation, but by contrast it almost felt like a grown-up version of something she might have worn at Penn or even Sill. Comparatively, it paid homage to prep without being preppy, developing a latent infusion of nostalgia and youth. She wanted to prefer the black. Reason told her to go for the black. In a movie, she'd definitely wear a black dress. But viscerally, physically, she felt lighter, looked younger in the navy. It made her feel how she wanted to feel in the black. Even if she bought both, she could wear only one. Vivien had to choose.

—A. Natasha Joukovsky, The Portrait of a Mirror

There is nothing wrong with being rich. It is the rich who buy paintings. It is when you are bought by the rich that you will know you are successful artist.

—Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

The statue, Zerchi was dismayed to notice, bore a marked similarity to some of the most effeminate images by which mediocre, or worse than mediocre, artists had traditionally misrepresented the personality of Christ. The sweet-sick face, blank eyes, simpering lips, and arms spread wide in a gesture of embrace. The hips were broad as a woman's, and the chest hinted at breasts—unless those were only folds in the cloak. Dear Lord of Golgotha, Abbot Zerchi breathed, is that all the rabble imagine You to be? He could with effort imagine the statue saying: "Suffer the little children to come unto me," but he could not imagine it saying: "Depart from me into everlasting fire, accursed ones," or flogging the money-changers out of the temple.

—Walter Miller, A Canticle for Leibowitz

It was a pleasure to see him handle a tool of any kind, but he was quite splendid with an eighteen inch file.

—An old workman from Henry Maudslay's shop, quoted in Lewis Mumford, Technics and Civilization

I am not sure that I ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from my clearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep a cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. The note of this once wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird's, and if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hootings of the owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses when their lord's clarions rested! No wonder that man added this bird to his tame stock,—to say nothing of the eggs and drumsticks. To walk in a winter morning in a wood where these birds abounded, their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels crow on the trees, clear and shrill for miles over the resounding earth, drowning the feebler notes of other birds,—think of it! It would put nations on the alert. Who would not be early to rise, and rise earlier and earlier every successive day of his life, till he become unspeakably healthy, wealthy, and wise? This foreign bird's note is celebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native songsters. All climates agree with brave Chanticleer. He is more indigenous even than the natives. His health is ever good, his lungs are sound, his spirits never flag.

—Henry David Thoreau, Walden

German philosopher Alexander Gottlieb Baumgarten is generally credited with establishing aesthetics as a distinct discipline. His goal, if you will, was to isolate beauty in something akin to a specimen jar and then examine it with the rigor a scientist might reserve for biology or chemistry. Approaching knowledge in this manner was a boon to science, of course, as well as to some approaches to art history. But for men and women eager to form a truly modern self, the isolation of beauty would cause it to grow increasingly arcane. As philosopher Alexander Nehemas suggests, "The creation of an aesthetic domain and the elaboration of a doctrine of fine arts were meant to establish the epistemological authority of sensory perception and to secure the spiritual rights of beauty. To that end the eighteenth century placed the arts side by side with the sciences in a setting in which each was to become increasingly impervious, even incomprehensible, to the other."

—Cameron Anderson, The Faithful Artist

A lot of research I've been doing has really been about differentiating between the sort of Catholic body-based imagery with a sensual, sexual kind of an aesthetic, versus what I see as this country's more dominant Protestant, Puritan-based approach. I see the latter as a more word-based, abstract-oriented, and more non-corporeal kind of an aesthetic. In fact one of the things I hypothesize is going on in the so-called culture war is that the aesthetic of Catholicism, which is a minority position in this country, is coming into conflict with the dominant Protestantism.

—Eleanor Heartley, quoted in Cameron Anderson, The Faithful Artist