Most moving passages from books.

[Deadpool]

semi drunk getting drunker, or just sobering up?

[DIVISION]

So if a guy made eye contact with you while he greased your weasel that would be cool ?

It would never get to that point because I only deal with vaginas.

Do I need to break it down for you, Sandy?



DIV

[ToxicAvenger]

semi drunk getting drunker, or just sobering up?

i never get to shitfaced now a days....i get drunk..then i get sleepy...then i give lil juni a quick wak and then i pass out...

[sandycoosworth]

Do I need to break it down for you, Sandy?

Apparently my sense of humor is a bit beyond yee grasp, I'll stick to dick and fart jokes from now on

[ToxicAvenger]

Apparently my sense of humor is a bit beyond yee grasp, I'll stick to dick and fart jokes from now on

i love fart jokes!    so does stella....oo oo wait ..lemme fetch something i posted recently on the gossip...

[ToxicAvenger]

http://one.revver.com/watch/95332/format/flv/affiliate/184


lmao...

[Jodi]

How we moved from the topic of most moving passages to blowjobs and fart jokes is beyond me.  Then again, this GetBig.  Anything goes.

Okay...I have several.  I'll just start with a few and then if y'all want to read more, I'll provide them.  I happen to have Fight Club sitting right here, and I just bought Chuck Palahniuck's other novel, Choke, tonight, so this is on my mind.

"If you don't know what you want," the doorman said, "you end up with a lot you don't."
May I never be complete.
May I never be content.
May I never be perfect.

To me, if you achieve these descriptions, then you have nothing to improve upon, nowhere to go.  You either have to start over and become something new or you have to falter and tear down everything that made you complete, content, and perfect in order to start over and reach these states again.  And what's the point in that?

The following is from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451:

"When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor.  He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands.  And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did.  I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the bakcyard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did.  H was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did.  He was individual.  He was an important man.  I've never gotten over his death.  Often I think what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died.  How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands.  He shaped the world.  He did things to the world.  The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

"Everyone must leave something behind he dies, my grandfather said.  A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made.  Or a garden planted.  Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted.  you're there.  It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away.  The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said.  The lawn cutter might just as well not have have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime."

[sandycoosworth]

ANY one who wishes to become a good writer should endeavour, before he allows himself to be tempted by the more showy qualities, to be direct, simple, brief, vigorous, and lucid.

The King’s English

[MiniMiggy]

The King’s English

I thought it belonged to the Queen now.

[MiniMiggy]

How we moved from the topic of most moving passages to blowjobs and fart jokes is beyond me.  Then again, this GetBig.  Anything goes.

Sex and literature often go hand in hand.  Like Toxic and DIVISION (and Al-Gebra would like to join them?).

[DIVISION]

Sex and literature often go hand in hand.  Like Toxic and DIVISION (and Al-Gebra would like to join them?).

Not sure about all that......

Junaid and I are cultured, but other than that we don't have that much else in common.




DIV

[Jodi]

Sex and literature often go hand in hand. 

I totally agree with that.

[sandycoosworth]

I thought it belonged to the Queen now.

Good one champ !

[Deedee]

     There were thirteen of us: Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, Thorkell the Short, Thorkell Thorkellsson, Thorkell Cat, Thorkell Flat-Nose, Thorkell-neb, Thorkell Ale-Lover, Thorkell the Old, Thorkell the Deep-minded, Ofeig, Skeggi, Grim, and me. We were tough. We were hardy.  We were bold.

.........

     Then one night we heard the cries of gulls like souls stricken in the dark. Thorkell Ale-Lover, keen of smell, snuffed the breeze. "Landfall near," he said.  In the morning the sun threw our shadows on a new land -- buff and green, slabs of grey, it swallowed the horizon.
     "Balder be praised!" said Thorkell the Old.
     "Thank Frigg," I said.
     We skirted the coast, looking for habitations to sack.  There were none. We'd discovered a wasteland. The Thorkells were for putting ashore to replenish our provisions and make sacrifice to the gods (in those days we hadn't yet learned to swallow unleavened bread and dab our foreheads with ashes.  We were real primitives.) We ran our doughty sleek warship up a sandy spit and lept ashore, fierce as flayed demons. It was an unnecessary show of force, as the countryside was desolate but it did our hearts good.
     The instant my feet touched earth the poetic fit came on me and I composed this verse:

New land, new-found beyond
The mickle waves by mickle fell
Men-fish, their stark battle
Valor failed them not.

     No Edda, I grant you -- but what can you expect after six weeks of bailing? I turned to Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, my brain charged with creative fever.

T. Coraghessan Boyle - We Are Norsemen - from Stories

(After reading some of the posts here tonight, it seemed applicable. 
     

[Al-Gebra]

     There were thirteen of us: Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, Thorkell the Short, Thorkell Thorkellsson, Thorkell Cat, Thorkell Flat-Nose, Thorkell-neb, Thorkell Ale-Lover, Thorkell the Old, Thorkell the Deep-minded, Ofeig, Skeggi, Grim, and me. We were tough. We were hardy.  We were bold.

.........

     Then one night we heard the cries of gulls like souls stricken in the dark. Thorkell Ale-Lover, keen of smell, snuffed the breeze. "Landfall near," he said.  In the morning the sun threw our shadows on a new land -- buff and green, slabs of grey, it swallowed the horizon.
     "Balder be praised!" said Thorkell the Old.
     "Thank Frigg," I said.
     We skirted the coast, looking for habitations to sack.  There were none. We'd discovered a wasteland. The Thorkells were for putting ashore to replenish our provisions and make sacrifice to the gods (in those days we hadn't yet learned to swallow unleavened bread and dab our foreheads with ashes.  We were real primitives.) We ran our doughty sleek warship up a sandy spit and lept ashore, fierce as flayed demons. It was an unnecessary show of force, as the countryside was desolate but it did our hearts good.
     The instant my feet touched earth the poetic fit came on me and I composed this verse:

New land, new-found beyond
The mickle waves by mickle fell
Men-fish, their stark battle
Valor failed them not.

     No Edda, I grant you -- but what can you expect after six weeks of bailing? I turned to Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, my brain charged with creative fever.

T. Coraghessan Boyle - We Are Norsemen - from Stories

(After reading some of the posts here tonight, it seemed applicable. 
     

i used to really like boyle . . . i think it was when i thought bruce springsteen was bob dylan's heir. 

now the only one i still really admire is dylan.

[Deedee]

i used to really like boyle . . . i think it was when i thought bruce springsteen was bob dylan's heir. 

now the only one i still really admire is dylan.

I think he was just too prolific, and the quality of his work suffered a little.  Still, he has penned some of the most hilarious short stories. Every now and then I'll pick through them if I feel the need to laugh my guts out while reading some excellent prose. Greasy Lake and East Meets West were fine novels imho...

[Jodi]

Speaking of Dylan...Thomas Dylan, that is...here's a poem I love (and just wrote about on my public forum):

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Thomas Dylan

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

[Deedee]

This is one of my favorites, always.

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

   -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

[Al-Gebra]

i think his name was dylan thomas . . . btw, do you think welsh women are particularly pretty?

i like the victorians too, even though toxie's doing his best to ruin them for me. 

[Jodi]

It is Dylan Thomas; I seem to be suffering from dyslexia and forgetfulness.  Before a show:  not enough sugar and no brain cells to be found anywhere.  Immediately after a show:  too much sugar and still no brain cells.

[sandycoosworth]

I seem to be suffering from dyslexia and forgetfulness.

Does that mean you dont remember to screw up your words