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A certain pride, a certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he knew it was in God’s power to take away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy.
I have considered giving up, at some point, nearly every book that I have read recently. I don’t think it’s a general weariness with reading, I just think that I’m not getting the mix of fiction/non-fiction, fantastical-fiction/realistic-fiction correct at the moment and that I’m reading books when I’m not in the mood for them. 1,198 more words
“To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.”
Starting an Important Book is a constricting moment. The weight of expectation fits snuggly, but I’m never sure if it’s expectation for the book or myself. 585 more words
Renowned critics and some professors in our best universities reverently acclaim as the superlative expression of genius James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake, a 628-page collection of erudite gibberish indistinguishable to most people from the familiar word-salad produced by hebephrenic patients on the back wards of any State Hospital.
The Mask of Sanity