Jesus wept, Voltaire smiled; and who likes Voltaire? Literature is all about destructive-testing the human psyche, so tears are inevitable. One hundred appropriate extracts to identify. Some non-fiction. Translations marked (*) (in two such cases the translator rather than the original author is credited). Hints on request.


The authors:

Renata Adler, Dante Alighieri, Heloise d’Argenteuil, St. Augustine, Jane Austen

John Barth, Samuel Beckett, Lucia Berlin, William Blake, John Braine, Charlotte Bronte, John Bunyan, Robert Burton

Thomas Carlyle, Lewis Carroll, Raymond Carver, Geoffrey Chaucer, Wilkie Collins

King David, Charles Dickens, Isak Dinesen, John Donne, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Charles M. Doughty, Arthur Conan Doyle, Lawrence Durrell

George Eliot

William Faulkner, Edward Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Friedrich de la Motte Fouque, John Fowles, Janet Frame, Robert Frost

John Gardner, William Gibson, J. W. von Goethe, William Golding, Kenneth Grahame, Graham Greene

Thomas Harris, Nathaniel Hawthorne, William Hazlitt, Joseph Heller, Frank Herbert, Zbigniew Herbert, Patricia Highsmith, Homer, Ted Hughes

Kazuo Ishiguro

Henry James, Tove Jansson, Robinson Jeffers, Jerome K. Jerome, James Joyce

John Keats, Rudyard Kipling

Diogenes Laertius, R. A. Lafferty, Pär Lagerkvist, Laurie Lee, D. H. Lawrence, Jack London, H. W. Longfellow

David Markson, Cormac McCarthy, William McGonagall, Herman Melville, John Milton, Iris Murdoch

Vladimir Nabokov

John Osborne

Mervyn Peake, Fernando Pessoa, Sylvia Plath, Plato, Terry Pratchett, Manuel Puig

Samuel Richardson, Tom Robbins, P. J. O’Rourke, Damon Runyon

Walter Scott, Anne Sexton, William Shakespeare, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Elizabeth Smart, Wallace Stevens

Alfred Lord Tennyson, W. M. Thackeray, Dylan Thomas, Mark Twain

John Updike

Virgil, William Vollmann

Evelyn Waugh, Edith Wharton, John Williams, Thomas Wolfe, Daniel Woodrell

1)
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber breasts or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something’s missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty?


2)
If I have all the tears that are shed on Broadway by guys in love, I will have enough salt water to start an opposition ocean to the Atlantic and Pacific, with enough left over to run the Great Salt Lake out of business. But I wish to say I never shed any of these tears personally, because I am never in love, and furthermore, barring a bad break, I never expect to be in love, for the way I look at it, love is strictly the old phedinkus, and I tell the little guy as much.


3)
— What manner o’ thing is your crocodile?

— It is shap’d, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates.

— What colour is it of?

— Of it own colour too.

— ’Tis a strange serpent.

— ’Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.


4)
Nothing so common to this sex as oaths, vows, and protestations, and as I have already said, tears, which they have at command; for they can so weep, that one would think their very hearts were dissolved within them, and would come out in tears; their eyes are like rocks, which still drop water, ‘diariae lachrymae et sudoris in modum lurgeri promptae’, saith Aristaenetus, they wipe away their tears like sweat, weep with one eye, laugh with the other; or as children weep and cry, they can both together.

Neve puellarum lachrymis moveare memento,
Ut flerent oculos erudiere suos.

Care not for women’s tears, I counsel thee,
They teach their eyes as much to weep as see.

And as much pity is to be taken of a woman weeping, as of a goose going barefoot.


5)
“Oh, please forgive me, Tom; my heart will break,” said Maggie, shaking with sobs, clinging to Tom’s arm, and laying her wet cheek on his shoulder.

Tom shook her off, and stopped again, saying in a peremptory tone, “Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren’t I a good brother to you?”

“Ye-ye-es,” sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling convulsedly.

“Didn’t I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and mean to buy it, and saved my money o’ purpose, and wouldn’t go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I wouldn’t?”

“Ye-ye-es — and I — lo-lo-love you so, Tom.”

“But you’re a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish-line down when I’d set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing.”

“But I didn’t mean,” said Maggie; “I couldn’t help it.”

6)
Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck by the difference between what things are and what they might have been.


7)
I loved Jenny most when, sitting beside her at sentimental movies, I would look away from the big screen where the beautiful actress was about to leave her lover forever, and see Jenny sitting upright in her chair, her black button-eyes concentrating so hard on the film, while she chewed and chewed her gum so earnestly, and I ran my forefinger below her eyes to verify that her face was wet, that Jenny was crying for the people on the screen, crying in perfect placid happiness over this debacle that had never happened; and I knew that after the movie was over Jenny would forget that she had cried, but she would feel refreshed by her tears.


8)
He placed his son then in his dear wife’s hands,
Where in her fragrant breast she nestled him,
Smiling through tears: at which, regarding her with pity,
Her husband soothed her with his touch and said:
“My dear, think no distressful thoughts for me;
No man shall send me to Hades before my time:
But fate’s a thing which none of woman born,
Be he brave or coward, can ever hope to escape.”

[*]


9)
The large-bodied Poet and the small, both large enough in soul, sat talking miscellaneously together, the present Editor being privileged to listen; and now Paul, in his serious way, was giving one of those inimitable “Extra-Harangues”; and, as it chanced, On the Proposal for a Cast-metal King: gradually a light kindled in our Professor’s eyes and face, a beaming, mantling, loveliest light; through those murky features, a radiant ever-young Apollo looked; and he burst forth like the neighing of all Tattersall’s, — tears streaming down his cheeks, pipe held aloft, foot clutched into the air, — loud, long-continuing, uncontrollable; a laugh not of the face and diaphragm only, but of the whole man from head to heel.


10)
“Child, lie down and sleep,” I urged.

“My bed is cold,” said she. “I can’t warm it.”

I saw the little thing shiver. “Come to me,” I said, wishing, yet scarcely hoping, that she would comply: for she was a most strange, capricious, little creature, and especially whimsical with me. She came, however, instantly, like a small ghost gliding over the carpet. I took her in. She was chill: I warmed her in my arms. She trembled nervously; I soothed her. Thus tranquillized and cherished she at last slumbered.

“A very unique child,” thought I, as I viewed her sleeping countenance by the fitful moonlight, and cautiously and softly wiped her glittering eyelids and her wet cheeks with my handkerchief. “How will she get through this world, or battle with this life? How will she bear the shocks and repulses, the humiliations and desolations, which books, and my own reason, tell me are prepared for all flesh?”

11)
My grandmother refused to concede that any member of the family died of natural causes. An uncle’s cancer in middle age occurred because all the suitcases fell off the luggage rack onto him when he was in his teens, and so forth. Death was an acquired characteristic. My grandmother, too, used to put other people’s ailments into the diminutive: strokelets were what her friends had. Aldo said he was bored to tearsies by my grandmother’s diminutives.


12)
She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.


13)
My chest was full of pain, my eyes smarted, and I was afraid — O monstrous trick against reason — I was afraid I was about to sob. I wanted to smash things, bring down the night with my howl of rage. But I kept still. She was beautiful, as innocent as dawn on winter hills. She tore me apart as once the Shaper’s song had done. As if for my benefit, as if in vicious scorn of me, children came from the meadhall and ran down to her, weeping, to snatch at her hands and dress.

“Stop it!” I whispered. “Stupid!”

She did not look at them, merely touched their heads. “Be still,” she said — hardly more than a whisper, but it carried across the crowd. They were still, as if her voice were magic. I clenched my teeth, tears streaming from my eyes. She was like a child, her sweet face paler than the moon.


14)
“I wish I hadn’t cried so much!” said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. “I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears! That will be a queer thing, to be sure! However, everything is queer to-day.”


15)
I drew aside my curtains before I went to bed and looked out from my window. It opened upon the grassy space which lay in front of the hall door. Beyond, two copses of trees moaned and swung in a rising wind. A half moon broke through the rifts of racing clouds. In its cold light I saw beyond the trees a broken fringe of rocks, and the long, low curve of the melancholy moor. I closed the curtain, feeling that my last impression was in keeping with the rest.

And yet it was not quite the last. I found myself weary and yet wakeful, tossing restlessly from side to side, seeking for the sleep which would not come. Far away a chiming clock struck out the quarters of the hours, but otherwise a deathly silence lay upon the old house. And then suddenly, in the very dead of the night, there came a sound to my ears, clear, resonant, and unmistakable. It was the sob of a woman, the muffled, strangling gasp of one who is torn by an uncontrollable sorrow. I sat up in bed and listened intently. The noise could not have been far away and was certainly in the house. For half an hour I waited with every nerve on the alert, but there came no other sound save the chiming clock and the rustle of the ivy on the wall.

16)
You don’t need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.


17)
He must have slept. When he woke he was lying in the grass looking up at the heavens. A cloudless night strewn with stars. Salt taste of sorrow in his throat. He saw a star spill across the sky, a light trail of fire and then nothing. Hot spalls of matter rifling through the icy ether. Misshapen globs of iron slag.

The night had grown much colder. He lay in the grass shivering and he tried to sleep but he could not. After a while he rose and took the whisky and went to the rear door of the church and tried it and it opened.

He was in a cellar. There were stacks of old newspapers and magazines along one wall and he stretched out on these and lay there. Then he sat up and took some to spread over him and lay down again. Then he started to cry again, lying there in the dark of the church cellar under the old newspapers.


18)
Once while she was crying, Sally said, “I’ll never see donkeys again!” which struck us as hilariously funny. She became furious, smashed her cup and plates, our glasses and ashtray against the wall. She kicked over the table, screaming at us. Cold calculating bitches. Not a shred of compassion or pity.

“One *pinche* tear. You don’t even look sad.” She was smiling by now. “You’re like police matrons. ‘Drink this. Here’s a tissue. Throw up in the basin.’”


19)
So cheer’d he his fair Spouse, and she was cheer’d,
But silently a gentle tear let fall
From either eye, and wip’d them with her hair;
Two other precious drops that ready stood,
Each in their crystal sluice, he ere they fell
Kiss’d as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
And pious awe, that fear’d to have offended.


20)
She came back, with some bread and meat and a little mug of beer. She put the mug down on the stones of the yard, and gave me the bread and meat without looking at me, as insolently as if I were a dog in disgrace. I was so humiliated, hurt, spurned, offended, angry, sorry, — I cannot hit upon the right name for the smart — God knows what its name was, — that tears started to my eyes. The moment they sprang there, the girl looked at me with a quick delight in having been the cause of them. This gave me power to keep them back and to look at her: so, she gave a contemptuous toss — but with a sense, I thought, of having made too sure that I was so wounded — and left me.

But when she was gone, I looked about me for a place to hide my face in, and got behind one of the gates in the brewery-lane, and leaned my sleeve against the wall there, and leaned my forehead on it and cried. As I cried, I kicked the wall, and took a hard twist at my hair; so bitter were my feelings, and so sharp was the smart without a name, that needed counteraction.

21)
FROM THE TECHNOLOGY OF TEARS

In our present state of knowledge only false tears are suitable for treatment and regular production. Genuine tears are hot, for which reason it is very difficult to remove them from the face. After their reduction to a solid state, they have proved to be extremely fragile. The problem of commercially exploiting genuine tears is a real headache for technologists.

False tears before being quick-frozen are submitted to a process of distillation, since they are by nature impure, and they are reduced to a state in which, with respect to purity, they are hardly inferior to genuine tears. They are very hard, very durable and thus are suitable not only for ornamentation but also for cutting glass.

[*]


22)
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.


23)
So he made him a purge, but it was too weak; it was said, it was made of the blood of a goat, the ashes of an heifer, and with some of the juice of hyssop, etc. When Mr. Skill had seen that that purge was too weak, he made him one to the purpose. It was made [the name was written in Latin] ex carne et sanguine Christi; (you know physicians give strange medicines to their patients) — and it was made up into pills, with a promise or two, and a proportionable quantity of salt. Now, he was to take them three at a time, fasting, in half a quarter of a pint of the tears of sorrow.


24)
— And don’t you have any close friends? . . . good friends?

— Oh, I have silly girlfriends like myself, but just in passing, good for a laugh once in a while, and that’s all. But as soon as we start getting a little dramatic . . . then we can’t stand the sight of each other. Because I already told you what it’s like; you see yourself in the other ones like so many mirrors and then you start running for your life.

— Things could change for you once you’re outside.

— No, they’ll never change . . .

— Come on, don’t cry . . . don’t be that way . . . Look how many times you make me listen to you cry . . . Well, I suppose you had to put up with my blubbering that time, too . . . But enough is enough. God . . . you . . . you make me nervous with your crying.

— I just can’t help it . . . I always have such rotten . . . luck . . .

— Hey, they shut off the lights . . .

— Of course they did, what do you think? It’s already eight-thirty. And just as well anyway, so you can’t see my face.

[*]


25)
WHERE IS THE BIGGEST DIAMOND IN THE WORLD?

“The biggest? That’s easy. It’s the Tear of Offler, it’s in the innermost sanctuary of the Lost Jewelled Temple of Doom of Offler the Crocodile God in darkest Howandaland, and it weighs eight hundred and fifty carats. And, sir, to forestall your next question, I personally would go to bed with it.”

26)
“How do you cry, Molly? I see your eyes are walled away. I’m curious.” His eyes were red-rimmed, his forehead gleaming with sweat. He was very pale. Sick, Case decided. Or drugs.

“I don’t cry, much.”

“But how would you cry, if someone made you cry?”

“I spit,” she said. “The ducts are routed back into my mouth.”

“Then you’ve already learned an important lesson, for one so young.” He rested the hand with the pistol on his knee and took a bottle from the table beside him, without bothering to choose from the half-dozen different liquors. He drank. Brandy. A trickle of the stuff ran from the corner of his mouth. “That is the way to handle tears.”


27)
At daybreak, on a bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.


28)
For the first time in my life I was out of the sight of humans. For the first time in my life I was alone in a world whose behaviour I could neither predict nor fathom: a world of birds that squealed, of plants that stank, of insects that sprang about without warning. I was lost and I did not expect to be found again. I put back my head and howled, and the sun hit me smartly on the face, like a bully.


29)
On a round ball
A workman that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
And quickly make that, which was nothing, all;
So doth each tear
Which thee doth wear,
A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,
Till thy tears mix’d with mine do overflow
This world; by waters sent from thee, my heaven dissolved so.


30)
The bell that had tinkled in the mist was silent again. The forest was asleep, and the black and empty window-panes of the little house in the glade stared sadly at them.

But inside, a Fillyjonk was sitting, listening to the ticking of her clock and the passing of the time. Now and then she went over to the window and looked out into the fair June night, and every time she moved, there was a little tinkle from the jingle bell she carried on the tassel of her cap. This used to cheer up the Fillyjonk (that was why she had sewn it on), but tonight it only made her sadder. She sighed and wandered around, sat down, and got up again.

She had laid the table with three plates and glasses and a vase of flowers, and on her stove was a pancake grown coal-black from waiting.

The Fillyjonk looked at her clock, and at the garlands over the door, and at herself in the mirror on the wall — and then she buried her head in her arms on the table, and began to cry. Her cap slipped forward with a single melancholy, jingling plunk, and her tears rolled slowly down on to her empty plate.

It isn’t always easy being a Fillyjonk.

[*]

31)
“I don’t think I want to be married,” she said, and her naïve, troubled, puzzled eyes rested a moment on his, then travelled away, pre-occupied.

“Do you mean never, or not just yet?” he asked.

The knot in his throat grew harder, his face was drawn as if he were being strangled.

“I mean never,” she said, out of some far self which spoke for once beyond her.

His drawn, strangled face watched her blankly for a few moments, then a strange sound took place in his throat. She started, came to herself, and, horrified, saw him. His head made a queer motion, the chin jerked back against the throat, the curious, crowing, hiccupping sound came again, his face twisted like insanity, and he was crying, crying blind and twisted as if something were broken which kept him in control.

“Tony — don’t,” she cried, starting up.


32)
. . . And Dioscorides, in his Commentaries, says, that, when he was lamenting his son, who was dead (with whose name I am not acquainted), and when some one said to him, “You do no good by weeping,” he replied, “But that is the very reason why I weep, because I do no good.”

[*]


33)
We travelled further, coming to a new
Locale, in which the frozen people keep
An upturned stance, their visages in view.

The very weeping here forbids them weep,
And all the grief their eyes will not allow
Twists inwards, bringing agony more deep:

Because the earliest teardrops to endow
Their cheeks freeze on the instant, to become
Like crystal visors under every brow.

[*]


34)
Deep under the hills Oread was crying. She was weeping big hot tears. They weren’t, however, iron tears that she wept. That part is untrue.

The tears were actually of that aromatic flux of salt and rosin that wrought-iron workers employ in their process.


35)
I found also among these Beduins, that with difficulty they imagine any future life; they pray and they fast as main duties in religion, looking (as the Semitic Patriarchs before them) for the present life’s blessing. There is a sacrifice for the dead, which I have seen continued to the third generation. I have seen a sheykh come with devout remembrance, to slaughter his sacrifice and to pray at the heap where his father or his father’s father lies buried: and I have seen such to kiss his hand, in passing any time by the place where the sire is sleeping, and breathe out, with almost womanly tenderness, words of blessing and prayer; — and this is surely comfort in one’s dying, that he will be long-time so kindly had in his children’s mind. In the settled Semitic countries their hareem, and even Christian women, go out at certain days to the graves to weep. I have seen a widow woman lead her fatherless children thither, and they kneeled down together: I saw the mother teach them to weep, and she bewailed her dead with a forced suffocating voice and sobbing, *Ya habîby*, “Aha! aha! my beloved!”

36)
I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing. Perfection never materializes. The saint weeps, and is human. God is silent. That is why we can love the saint but cannot love God.

[*]


37)
Then he breathed his last with a gurgling sound,
And for the loss of the great hero the soldiers’ sorrow was profound,
Because he was always kind and served them well,
And as they thought of him tears down their cheeks trickling fell.


38)
The Colonel was the first that took my attention, kneeling on the side of the bed, the lady’s right−hand in both his, which his face covered, bathing it with his tears; altho’ she had been comforting him, as the women since told him, in elevated strains, but broken accents.

On the other side of the bed sat the good Widow; her face overwhelmed with tears, leaning her head against the bed’s head in a most disconsolate manner; and turning her face to me, as soon as she saw me, O Mr. Belford, cried she, with folded hands — The dear lady — a heavy sob not permitting her to say more.

Mrs. Smith, with clasped fingers, and uplifted eyes, as if imploring help from the Only Power which could give it, was kneeling down at the bed’s feet, tears in large drops trickling down her cheeks.

Her Nurse was kneeling between the widow and Mrs. Smith, her arms extended. In one hand she held an ineffectual cordial, which she had just been offering to her dying mistress; her face was swoln with weeping (tho’ used to such scenes as this) and she turned her eyes towards me, as if she called upon me by them to join in the helpless sorrow; a fresh stream bursting from them as I approached the bed.

The maid of the house, with her face upon her folded arms, as she stood leaning against the wainscot, more audibly expressed her grief than any of the others.


39)
Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania! He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave and the liberticide,
Trampled and mock’d with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.


40)
She delivered the paper to the night duty officer and fell into her grateful bed, the voices of the day still whispering, softer than Mapp’s breathing across the room. On the swarming dark she saw the moth’s wise little face. Those glowing eyes had looked at Buffalo Bill.

Out of the cosmic hangover the Smithsonian leaves came her last thought and a coda for her day: *Over this odd world, this half of the world that’s dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.*

41)
Ah yes, there’s great fun to be had from an eye. It weeps for the least little thing: a yes, a no. The yesses make it weep, the noes too. (The perhapses particularly.)


42)
Sissy leapt from the vehicle and ran. Four or five blocks away, out of breath but safe in the neon aura of a just-closing working man’s luncheonette, she stopped to rest. The tears the rapist had longed for made their appearance, heavy and hot, just the way he would have liked them. The thought of it made her stop crying.

She examined her thumb. Fresh bruises, like blue jellyfish, were floating lazily to the surface. Sore muscles twitched mechanically, as if typing an essay: “The Thumb As Weapon.”

“Twice in one day,” Sissy sobbed. “Twice in one day.”


43)
Blindly, he groped his way back to his place in the circle, sank to the rock floor.

A voice hissed: “He sheds tears!”

It was taken up around the ring: “Usul gives moisture to the dead!”

He felt fingers touch his damp cheek, heard the awed whispers.


44)
The earth gripped both her ankles as she prayed.
Roots forced from beneath her toenails, they burrowed
Among deep stones to the bedrock. She swayed,

Living statuary on a tree’s foundations.
In that moment, her bones became grained wood,
Their marrow pith,

Her blood sap, her arms boughs, her fingers twigs,
Her skin rough bark. And already
The gnarling crust has coffined her swollen womb.

It swarms over her breasts. It warps upwards
Reaching for her eyes as she bows
Eagerly into it, hurrying the burial

Of her face and her hair under thick-webbed bark.
Now all her feeling has gone into wood, with her body.
Yet she weeps,

The warm drops ooze from her rind.
These tears are still treasured.
To this day they are known by her name — Myrrh.

[*]


45)
“Are you there? I say, are you there, woman?” he howled, barking his big knuckles in a furious bombardment.

There was nothing but the white living silence.

“Ah me! Ah me!” he sighed with strong self-pity, then burst into forced snuffling sobs, which furnished a running accompaniment to his denunciation. “Merciful God!” he wept, “it’s fearful, it’s awful, it’s croo-el. What have I ever done that God should punish me like this in my old age?”

There was no answer.

“Cynthia! Cynthia!” he howled suddenly, invoking the memory of his first wife, the gaunt tubercular spinstress whose life, it was said, his conduct had done nothing to prolong, but whom he was fond of supplicating now, realising the hurt, the anger he caused to Eliza by doing so. “Cynthia! O Cynthia! Look down upon me in my hour of need! Give me succour! Give me aid! Protect me against this fiend out of Hell!”

And he continued, weeping in heavy snuffling burlesque: “O-boo-hoo-hoo! Come down and save me, I beg of you, I entreat you, I implore you, or I perish.”

Silence answered.

46)
12/18/46

Sometimes writing is like being seen crying at a friend’s funeral.


47)
Poor Tchaikovsky, who once visited America and spent his first night in a hotel room weeping, because he was homesick.

Even if his head at least did not come off.


48)
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris — no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never “weeps, he knows not why”. If Harris’s eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.


49)
Pour the unhappiness out
From your too bitter heart,
Which grieving will not sweeten.

Poison grows in this dark.
It is in the water of tears
Its black blooms rise.


50)
Death had brought the women into their kingdom, and made them free to deliver each her inheritance of sorrow. They crept forward in a body, gathering speed as they mounted the staircases, their faces rapt and transfigured now as they uttered the first terrible screaming. Their fingers were turned into hooks now, tearing at their own flesh, their breasts, their cheeks, with a lustful abandon as they moved swiftly up the staircase. They were uttering that curious and thrilling ululation which is called the zagreet, their tongues rippling on their palates like mandolines. An ear-splitting chorus of tongue trills in various keys.

The old house echoed to the shrieks of these harpies as they took possession of it and invaded the room of death to circle round the silent corpse, still repeating the blood-curdling signal of death, full of an unbearable animal abandon. They began the dances of ritual grief while Nessim and Balthazar sat silent upon their chairs, their heads sunk upon their breasts, their hands clasped — the very picture of human failure. They allowed these fierce quivering screams to pierce them to the very quick of their beings. Only submission now to the ritual of this ancient sorrow was permissible: and sorrow had become an orgiastic frenzy which bordered on madness. The women were dancing now as they circled the body, striking their breasts and howling, but dancing in the slow measured figures of a dance recaptured from longforgotten friezes upon the tombs of the ancient world. They moved and swayed, quivering from throat to ankles, and they twisted and turned calling upon the dead man to rise. ‘Rise, my despair! Rise, my death! Rise, my golden one, my death, my camel, my protector! O beloved body full of seed, arise!’ And then the ghastly ululations torn from their throats, the bitter tears streaming from their torn minds. Round and round they moved, hypnotized by their own lamentations, infecting the whole house with their sorrow while from the dark courtyard below came the deeper, darker hum of their menfolk sobbing as they touched hands in consolation and repeated, to comfort one another: ‘Ma-a-lesh! Let it be forgiven! Nothing avails our grief!’

51)
“You haven’t said when,” she said.

In six weeks, I said.

She just turned away again.

Five weeks then, I said after a bit.

“I’ll stay here a week and not a day more.”

Well, I said I couldn’t agree to that and she turned away again. Then she was crying. I could see her shoulders moving, I wanted to go up to her, I did near the bed but she turned so sharp I think she thought I was going to attack her. Full of tears her eyes were. Cheeks wet. It really upset me to see her like that.

“I hate you, I hate you.”

I’ll give you my word, I said. When the time’s up you can go as soon as you like.

She wouldn’t have it. It was funny, she sat there crying and staring at me, her face was all pink. I thought she was going to come at me again, she looked as if she wanted to. But then she began to dry her eyes. Then she lit a cigarette. And then she said, “Two weeks.”


52)
His mistress cried big: with thrilling swiftness her face dissolved and, her mouth smeared out of all shape, she lurched against him with an awkward bump and soaked his throat in abusive sobs. Whereas his wife wept like a miraculous icon, her face immobile while the tears ran, and so silently that as they lay together in bed at night he would have to ask her, “Are you crying?”


53)
Perhaps, one day, you may want to come back, I shall wait for that day. I want to stand up in your tears, and splash about in them, and sing. I want to be there when you grovel. I want to be there, I want to watch it, I want the front seat.


54)
‘Alas!’ quod she, ‘out of this regioun
I, woful wrecche and infortuned wight,
And born in corsed constellacioun,
Mot goon, and thus departen fro my knight;
Wo worth, allas! That ilke dayes light
On which I saw him first with eyen tweyne,
That causeth me, and I him, al this peyne!’

Therwith the teres from hir eyen two
Doun fille, as shour in Aperill ful swythe;
Hir whyte brest she bet, and for the wo
After the deeth she cryed a thousand sythe,
Sin he that wont hir wo was for to lythe,
She mot for-goon; for which disaventure
She held hir-self a forlost creature.


55)
It only needs time, he thought. A season, a spring or summer.

His head felt unearthed, ancient, like the skull of a mammoth. Drums beat in the sky; his skin was too tight, it would not fit.

At three o’clock the next afternoon when the man from the Self-Drive Hire Company called, knocked, and got no answer, when neighbours saw the accumulating milk bottles outside the door and the paper boy found his papers not collected, when the world, as it does in a feat of intensely interested arithmetic, put two and two together, the police were called. They forced an entry to the house. They searched. When they came to his room they found his mother lying on the bed, laced with wires and switches. He was leaning over the transmitting set in the corner of the room. Tears were streaming down his face. He was trying to get in touch with Persia.

56)
“Well?” she said. “Well? Make haste!”

I looked at her in perplexity.

“Well, where is the letter? Have you brought the letter?” she repeated, clutching at the railing.

“No, there is no letter,” I said at last. “Hasn’t he been to you yet?” She turned fearfully pale and looked at me for a long time without moving. I had shattered her last hope.

“Well, God be with him,” she said at last in a breaking voice; “God be with him if he leaves me like that.”

She dropped her eyes, then tried to look at me and could not. For several minutes she was struggling with her emotion. All at once she turned away, leaning her elbows against the railing, and burst into tears.

[*]


57)
I shall take care that you find out what I have done for you, when I am past telling you of it myself. Will you say something kind of me then — in the same gentle way that you have when you speak to Miss Rachel? If you do that, and if there are such things as ghosts, I believe my ghost will hear it, and tremble with the pleasure of it.

It’s time I left off. I am making myself cry. How am I to see my way to the hiding-place if I let these useless tears come and blind me?


58)
She cried all the way into Dorchester. I held her tightly, her face against mine; I remember the smell of her hair, brine and olives and sweat. We hardly spoke; I kept staring outside at the rolling downs, at the wheat that seemed to have the dark glitter of pyrites, at the stretches of heath as theatrically bleak as the farmland was theatrically opulent, taking in great gulps of scenery like brandy against my mounting guilt and emptiness.


59)
Whatever it is catches my heart in its hands, whatever it is makes me shudder with love
And painful joy and the tears prickle . . . the Greeks were not its inventors. The Greeks were not the inventors

Of shining clarity and jewel-sharp form and the beauty of God. He was free with men before the Greeks came:
He is here naked on the shining water. Every eye that has a man’s nerves behind it has known him.


60)
‘Let her have her Catholic funeral. She would have liked it.’

‘What earthly difference does it make.’

‘I don’t suppose any for her. But it always pays us to be generous.’

‘And what have I to do with it?’

‘She always said that her husband had a great respect for you.’

He was turning the screw of absurdity too far. I wished to shatter the deadness of this buried room with laughter. I sat down on the sofa and began to shake with it. I thought of Sarah dead upstairs and Henry asleep with a silly smile on his face, and the lover with the strawberry mark discussing the funeral with the lover who had employed Mr Parkis to sprinkle his door-bell with powder. The tears ran down my cheeks as I laughed. Once in the blitz I saw a man laughing outside his house where his wife and child were buried.

‘I don’t understand,’ Smythe said.

61)
The grandeur of the house astonished, but could not console her. The rooms were too large for her to move in with ease: whatever she touched she expected to injure, and she crept about in constant terror of something or other; often retreating towards her own chamber to cry; and the little girl who was spoken of in the drawing-room when she left it at night as seeming so desirably sensible of her peculiar good fortune, ended every day’s sorrows by sobbing herself to sleep.


62)
There is no tomorrow, not reason’s nor any other. And today, my only today, I spill uselessly into my ten-cent notebook, my eyes used up with tears. This is the hour I once rose up, and beautifully equipped with scorn, commanded the sun to rise. Now this is no hour and it leads nowhere. It dangles meaninglessly.

Who shuffles by me gripping chairs for support? I do. I myself. I reel round the café, solicited by the prostitute sleep. Every tear is wept and lies staining its falling place. I am without words. I am without thoughts. But *quia amore langueo*. I am dying for love. This is the language of love.


63)
I told her that the affair was temporary, that my love for her was temporary, and doubtless her love for me was temporary. I spoke of mortality and the fragile and shadowy nature of human arrangements and the jumbled unreality of human minds, while her large light brown eyes spoke to me of the eternal. She said, I want to be perfect for you so that you can leave me without pain, and this perfect expression of love simply irritated me. She said, I will wait forever, although I know . . . I am not . . . waiting for . . . anything. What a love duet, and how much I enjoyed it although in her suffering I suffered a little too. Certainly she concealed her pain as much as she could; but towards the end it was impossible. She cried before me with wide open eyes, not staunching the tears. Her tears fell on my sleeve, on my hand like storm rain. And when at last I told her to go she went like a shadow, with silent swift obedience. After that I went on my second visit to Japan. The taste of sake still makes me remember Lizzie’s tears.


64)
“ . . . How can I hope to be ever set at large again” (he said), “who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!” (Here his sobs choked him.)


65)
“Fuck you,” I tell her.

“You’re just no good, are you?”

“I told you. I warned you. Don’t you ever to say that to me again.”

“I’ll say anything I want,” she shouts back at me heatedly. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Yes, you say that to me often,” I remind her. “And then you sober up, and discover that you are.”

She shatters. “You bastard.” The tears form quickly and are streaming down her face. “You won another argument, didn’t you?”

66)
AUGUST 21.

In vain do I stretch out my arms toward her when I awaken in the morning from my weary slumbers. In vain do I seek for her at night in my bed, when some innocent dream has happily deceived me, and placed her near me in the fields, when I have seized her hand and covered it with countless kisses. And when I feel for her in the half confusion of sleep, with the happy sense that she is near, tears flow from my oppressed heart; and, bereft of all comfort, I weep over my future woes.

[*]


67)
“Leave me alone! Oh, you infernal bullies, leave me alone! Haven’t I had enough?”

“He says we must leave him alone,” said McTurk.

“He says we are bullies, an’ we haven’t even begun yet,” said Beetle. “You’re ungrateful, Seffy. Golly! You do look an atrocity and a half!”

“He says he has had enough,” said Stalky. “He errs!”

“Well, to work, to work!” chanted McTurk, waving a stump. “Come on, my giddy Narcissus. Don’t fall in love with your own reflection!”

“Oh, let him off,” said Campbell from his corner; “he’s blubbing, too.”

Sefton cried like a twelve-year-old with pain, shame, wounded vanity, and utter helplessness.


68)
Hillsides knit with ice came apart. Ice slipped from everything, limb, twig, stump, rock, and cascaded chinking to ground. Mist lifted from the bottoms to lie over the tracks but did not lift much above her head. Mist smeared like tears squashed on her cheeks. She could see the sky but her feet were cloudy. The stout ties, moistened, released their tar smell, and she kicked from one wet tie to the next, sniffing tar in the mist and listening to ice chime in the trees or slip loose to shatter. She wiped the mist that felt like tears on her cheeks and pulled her hood tight. Larger ice shapes fell thudding. Runnels of high melt cut wee downhill gutters in the snow. Ice sounds and trickle sounds and her boots thumping. At a bridge across a frozen creek she paused to stare down. She tried to see past the pocked skin of ice to the depths of flowing water. She was strangely still and staring, still and staring on the bridge until she understood that her eyes searched for a body beneath that ice, and she crouched to her knees and cried, cried until tears ran down her chest.


69)
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

[*]


70)
He made a last effort to collect himself. “But that was a fortnight ago, wasn’t it? I thought you said you weren’t sure till today.”

Her colour burned deeper, but she held his gaze. “No; I wasn’t sure then — but I told her I was. And you see I was right!” she exclaimed, her blue eyes wet with victory.

71)
“You must understand that Beryl is a woman of strict Catholic principle fortified by the prejudices of the middle class. I couldn’t possibly bring her here. It is a matter of indifference whether you choose to live in sin with Rex or Charles or both — I have always avoided enquiry into the details of your ménage — but in no case would Beryl consent to be your guest.”

Julia rose. “Why, you pompous ass . . . ” she said, stopped, and turned towards the door.

At first I thought she was overcome by laughter; then, as I opened the door to her, I saw with consternation that she was in tears. I hesitated. She slipped past me without a glance.


72)
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.


73)
Soon the two ships diverged their wakes; and long as the strange vessel was in view, she was seen to yaw hither and thither at every dark spot, however small, on the sea. This way and that her yards were swung round; starboard and larboard, she continued to tack; now she beat against a head sea; and again it pushed her before it; while all the while, her masts and yards were thickly clustered with men, as three tall cherry trees, when the boys are cherrying among the boughs.

But by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without comfort. She was Rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.


74)
As I approached Miss Kenton’s door, I saw from the light seeping around its edges that she was still within. And that was the moment, I am now sure, that has remained so persistently lodged in my memory — that moment as I paused in the dimness of the corridor, the tray in my hands, an ever-growing conviction mounting within me that just a few yards away, on the other side of that door, Miss Kenton was at that moment crying. As I recall, there was no real evidence to account for this conviction — I had certainly not heard any sounds of crying — and yet I remember being quite certain that were I to knock and enter, I would discover her in tears. I do not know how long I remained standing there; at the time it seemed a significant period, but in reality, I suspect, it was only a matter of a few seconds. For, of course, I was required to hurry upstairs to serve some of the most distinguished gentlemen of the land and I cannot imagine I would have delayed unduly.


75)
CHILD:
Look,

FIRST VOICE:
says a child to her mother as they pass by the window of Schooner House,

CHILD:
Captain Cat is crying.

FIRST VOICE:
Captain Cat is crying

CAPTAIN CAT
Come back, come back,

FIRST VOICE:
up the silences and echoes of the passages of the eternal night.

CHILD:
He’s crying all over his nose,

FIRST VOICE:
says the child. Mother and child move on down the street.

CHILD:
He’s got a nose like strawberries,

FIRST VOICE:
the child says; and then she forgets him too.

76)
“Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?” said the Templar.

“By the bones of Thomas a Becket,” answered De Bracy, “the Lady Rowena must have heard that I cannot endure the sight of women’s tears.”

“Away!” said the Templar; “thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard a woman’s tears! A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the flame blaze the brighter.”


77)
And now, Lord, these things are passed by, and time hath assuaged my wound. May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and approach the ear of my heart unto Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping is sweet to the miserable?

[*]


78)
She threw back her veil; heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling with love and the awe of approaching death, the knight leant towards her. She kissed him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed not her hold, pressing him more closely in her arms, and weeping as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the knight’s eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and agony shot through his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly back from her fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse.

“I have wept him to death!” said she to some domestics, who met her in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified group, she went slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain.

[*]


79)
At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. “I shall leave Florence to-morrow,” he said without a quaver.

“I’m delighted to hear it!” she answered passionately. Five minutes after he had gone out she burst into tears.


80)
Quite deliberately, realizing that if he did not act at once he would never act again, he lifted a large stone bottle of red ink from the table at his side and, on reaching Mr Fluke and finding his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his strong jaws wide open in a paroxysm of seismic laughter, Mr Bellgrove poured the entire contents down the funnel of Fluke’s throat in one movement of the wrist. Turning to the staff, ‘Perch-Prism,’ he said, in a voice of such patriarchal authority as startled the professors almost as much as the ink-pouring, ‘you will set about organizing the search for his Lordship. Take the staff with you to the red-stone yard. Flannelcat, you will get Mr Fluke removed to the sick-room. Fetch the doctor for him. Report progress this evening. I shall be found in the Headmaster’s study. Good morning. Gentlemen.’

As he swept out of the room with a bellying sweep of his gown and a toss of his silver hair, his old heart was beating madly. Oh, the joy of giving orders! Oh, the joy of it! Once he had closed the door behind him, he ran, with high monstrous bounds, to the Headmaster’s study and collapsed into the Headmaster’s chair — *his* chair from now onwards. He hugged his knees against his chin, flopped over on his side, and wept with the first real sense of happiness he had known for many years.

81)
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader. For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn’t know I knew.


82)
She looked pleadingly and hopelessly at me and asked if I could give her no consolation. What could she do to make Christ have mercy upon her? I answered that it was presumptuous of her to ask such a thing, for she was so full of sin that it was natural that the Savior should not listen to her prayers. He had not been crucified for the redemption of such as she. She listened meekly and said that she felt that too. She was not worthly that He should listen to her. She was aware of this in her innermost consciousness when she knelt praying before his image. She sat down sighing, but somewhat calmer, and began to talk about herself as the most depraved of all mankind, and that she never could share in the heavenly grace. “I have loved much,” she said, “but I have not loved God and His Son, and so my punishment is only just.”

Then she thanked me for my kindness. It was a relief to be able to confess, even if, as she well understood, she could not hope for any absolution. And it was the first time she had been able to weep.

[*]


83)
She reaches for his hand, and he lets her
take it. Why not? Where’s the harm?
Let her. His mind’s made up. She covers his
fingers with kisses, tears fall onto his wrist.

He draws on his cigarette and looks at her
as a man would look indifferently on
a cloud, a tree, or a field of oats at sunset.
He narrows his eyes against the smoke. From time
to time he uses the ashtray as he waits
for her to finish weeping.


84)
The tears began to flow and sobs shook him. He gave himself up to them now for the first time on the island; great, shuddering spasms of grief that seemed to wrench his whole body. His voice rose under the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and sob too.


85)
“I’ve got a man in England who buys me clothes. He sends over a selection of things at the beginning of each season, spring and fall.”

He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-coloured disarray. While we admired he brought more and the soft rich heap mounted higher — shirts with stripes and scrolls and plaids in coral and apple-green and lavender and faint orange, with monograms of indian blue. Suddenly, with a strained sound, Daisy bent her head into the shirts and began to cry stormily.

“They’re such beautiful shirts,” she sobbed, her voice muffled in the thick folds. “It makes me sad because I’ve never seen such — such beautiful shirts before.”

86)
‘I am unhappy, Father,’ I said. ‘I have loved this town and the people in it. I have drunk them down with delight. But they have some poison in them which I cannot stand. If I think of them now, I vomit up my soul. Do you know of a cure for me?’

‘Why, yes,’ he said, ‘I know of a cure for everything: salt water.’

‘Salt water?’ I asked him.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.’


87)
A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which the wild infant bore a part, had developed all her sympathies; and as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it.


88)
One more paragraph:

“Then once more I bowed my head. It is no shame to have wept in Palestine. I wept, when I saw Jerusalem, I wept when I lay in the starlight at Bethlehem. I wept on the blessed shores of Galilee. My hand was no less firm on the rein, my anger did not tremble on the trigger of my pistol when I rode with it in my right hand along the shore of the blue sea” (weeping.) “My eye was not dimmed by those tears nor my heart in aught weakened. Let him who would sneer at my emotion close this volume here, for he will find little to his taste in my journeyings through Holy Land.”

He never bored but he struck water.


89)
Men gasped and began to breathe again, unaware that for a moment they had ceased to breathe. Thornton was running behind, encouraging Buck with short, cheery words. The distance had been measured off, and as he neared the pile of firewood which marked the end of the hundred yards, a cheer began to grow and grow, which burst into a roar as he passed the firewood and halted at command. Every man was tearing himself loose, even Matthewson. Hats and mittens were flying in the air. Men were shaking hands, it did not matter with whom, and bubbling over in a general incoherent babel.

But Thornton fell on his knees beside Buck. Head was against head, and he was shaking him back and forth. Those who hurried up heard him cursing Buck, and he cursed him long and fervently, and softly and lovingly.

“Gad, sir! Gad, sir!” spluttered the Skookum Bench king. “I’ll give you a thousand for him, sir, a thousand, sir — twelve hundred, sir.”

Thornton rose to his feet. His eyes were wet. The tears were streaming frankly down his cheeks. “Sir,” he said to the Skookum Bench king, “no, sir. You can go to hell, sir. It’s the best I can do for you, sir.”


90)
We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tyres, and her sobs in the night — every night, every night — the moment I feigned sleep.

91)
My tears, which I could not restrain, have blotted half your letter: I wish they had effaced the whole and that I had returned it to you in that condition. I should then have been satisfied with the little time I kept it, but it was demanded of me too soon.

[*]


92)
See Priam! Even here there are renown’s rewards;
There are the tears of things, that touch the mortal mind.

[*]


93)
The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. . . .


94)
“He sho a preacher, mon! He didn’t look like much at first, but hush!”

“He seed de power en de glory.”

“Yes, suh. He seed hit. Face to face he seed hit.”

Dilsey made no sound, her face did not quiver as the tears took their sunken and devious courses, walking with her head up, making no effort to dry them away even.

“Whyn’t you quit dat, mammy?” Frony said. “Wid all dese people lookin. We be passin white folks soon.”

“I’ve seed de first en de last,” Dilsey said. “Never you mind me.”


95)
The crowd began singing “Bayan Ko” (“My Country”), the anthem of the campaign, written in the 1930s, during American rule. They sang in the clear, harmonious voice that seems to be given to all the world’s put-upon people. The words, in Tagalog, mean:

My country was seized and driven to misery.
Birds were given the freedom of flight.
Cage them and they will cry
Just like a beautiful country
That has no freedom. . . .
Philippines that I adore,
Nest of tears and suffering,
My ambition is to see you free.
If our people will unite,
Then this will come to be.

Standing there by the altar with the rest of the press corps, looking out at these nice, determined faces, feeling this appetite for hope, I began to cry. I was standing there like a big fool with tears running down my face. I remember it all from twenty years ago when I was in a crowd like this — the meetings, the marches, the joy of moral certitude, romance amidst the tear gas. I remember the wonderful fight against prejudice, poverty, injustice, a new day dawning. . . . And I remember how it all slipped away and came to shit.

96)
Emmy’s head sank down, and for almost the last time in which she shall be called upon to weep in this history, she commenced that work.


97)
“Thou’rt guilty of nothing,” Mrs. Russecks said, looking past him to her daughter. “’Tis *you* that have been naughty, Henrietta, to tell tales out of school — ” She got no farther, for Henrietta ran weeping to embrace her mother and beg forgiveness; yet it was clear that the girl’s emotion was not contrition for any misdemeanor, but sympathy and love inspired by what she had learned. Mrs. Russecks kissed her forehead and turned her eyes for the first time, eager and yet pained, to the twins; she managed to control her feelings until Anna too was moved to embrace her, whereupon she cried “Sweet babes!” and surrendered to her tears.

There ensued such a general chorus of weeping that for some minutes no other sound was heard in the millhouse. Everyone embraced everyone else in the spirit summed up by Ebenezer, the first to speak when the crest of the flood had passed and everyone was sniffling privately.

“*Sunt lacrimae rerum*,” he declared, wiping his eyes.


98)
Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face and wept, not for him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to part from such a friend.

[*]


99)
He said at last, heavily and slowly, “In many ways I am an ignorant man; it is I who am foolish, not you. I have not come to see you because I thought — I felt that I was becoming a nuisance. Maybe that was not true.”

“No,” she said. “No, it wasn’t true.”

Still not looking at her, he continued, “And I didn’t want to cause you the discomfort of having to deal with — with my feelings for you, which, I knew, sooner or later, would become obvious if I kept seeing you.”

She did not move; two tears welled over her lashes and ran down her cheeks; she did not brush them away.

“I was perhaps selfish. I felt that nothing could come of this except awkwardness for you and unhappiness for me. You know my — circumstances. It seemed to me impossible that you could — that you could feel for me anything but — ”

“Shut up,” she said softly, fiercely. “Oh, my dear, shut up and come over here.”


100)
Sing unto the LORD, O ye saints of his, and give thanks at the remembrance of his holiness.

For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

[*]

12 is keats belle dam sans mercie
15 is doyle hound baskervilles
17 im guessing cormac mccarthy idk which book
27 is longfellow the ballad about the fisherman and his daughter getting caught in a storm
54 is chaucer im guessing
76 is scott ivanhoe
78 is la motte foque undine

>>24487661
7/7 to get us started. Just a few gaps still to fill in:


>12 is keats belle dam sans mercie
Belle dame but yes.

>15 is doyle hound baskervilles
Correct.

>17 im guessing cormac mccarthy idk which book
Some other anon should be able to help out.

>27 is longfellow the ballad about the fisherman and his daughter getting caught in a storm
Wreck of the Hesperus.

>54 is chaucer im guessing
As above, someone else should be able to ID the work, I'm sure. (He didn't write that much.)

>76 is scott ivanhoe
Correct. Not sure how /lit/ anons will feel about this book. Fine cheery chivalry, but on the other hand, a sympathetic jewess. They’ll be torn.

>78 is la motte foque undine
Right. Strange little book, but Undine herself clearly did nothing wrong.

8) Is this Hector in the Iliad?
14) Assuming (mostly via name drop) that this is Alice in Wonderland.
19) Paradise Lost
26) This is either Neuromancer or one of the sequels.
44) Metamorphoses?
51) I'm coming far out of left field, but could this be The Magus? I want to say the main character upset his girlfriend in a similar way.
48) Three Men in a Boat
64) Wind in the Willows
73) Moby Dick (the Rachel seeking the captain's son)
74) Remains of the Day
84) Lord of the Flies?
85) Great Gatsby
92) The Aeneid (also quoted by whatever 97 is)

>>24487849
17 Suttree?

>>24487541
>And then she said, “Two weeks.”

>>24487879
>Secretly
But who would want to hide being a duck? Ducks are the top of every hierarchy.

12½/13 here, more or less:—

>8) Is this Hector in the Iliad?
Sure is. δακρυόεν γελάσασα (‘smiling through tears’) being the bit everyone knows. Or should know.

>14) Assuming (mostly via name drop) that this is Alice in Wonderland.
Of course. The pool of tears she wept when she was enormous.

>19) Paradise Lost
Right. Eve being very sorry for her wrongdoing. Maybe.

>26) This is either Neuromancer or one of the sequels.
Case isn't in the sequels (except for five minutes at the end of Mona Lisa Overdrive) so Neuromancer it is.

>44) Metamorphoses?
More or less. Technically it's Ted Hughes, ‘Tales From Ovid’. One of the times I’m crediting the translator, since it’s at least as much Hughes as Ovid.

>51) I'm coming far out of left field, but could this be The Magus? I want to say the main character upset his girlfriend in a similar way.
Right author, wrong work. That makes it pretty easy I guess.

>48) Three Men in a Boat
Correct.

>64) Wind in the Willows
Correct. Toad wracked with remorse, guilt and self-pity. Cheer up, Toad. Prospects will improve in just a couple of chapters.

>73) Moby Dick (the Rachel seeking the captain's son)
Right.

>74) Remains of the Day
Right. Another mildly helpful character name.

>84) Lord of the Flies?
Correct. I had to cut it off pretty short (talking about the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy would have made it a bit easy) but you got it anyway.

>85) Great Gatsby
Right. Daisy sees Gatsby’s wealth and wonders if she backed the wrong horse.

>92) The Aeneid
Correct.
>(also quoted by whatever 97 is)
‘sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt’ being another one of those classical snippets that everyone knows, or used to.

>>24487930

>17 Suttree?
Correct. On the way home from his son’s funeral. Unsurprisingly he’s not in the cheeriest of moods.

>>24488050
>>51) I'm coming far out of left field, but could this be The Magus? I want to say the main character upset his girlfriend in a similar way.
>Right author, wrong work. That makes it pretty easy I guess.
Not sure how I managed that. I can also rule out The French Lieutenant's Woman somewhat confidently. Of the Fowles novels I haven't read, The Collector seems to be the best known, so I'll shift my guess.

>>24488138
>51
>The Collector seems to be the best known, so I'll shift my guess.
Right. The premise (guy kidnaps & imprisons girl, optimistically hopes she will come to like him) fits the extract pretty well I think.

33. Dante, Commedia
66. Goethe, Werther
98. Plato, Apology

>>24487539
Gamp's 'friend' has a husband? If so, 48 is Martin Chuzzlewit, Charles Dickens

39 From near the beginning of Shelley's elegy to Keats, Adonais

35 guessing Douty, somewhere in Arabia Deserta

>>24487518
22's Tennyson; title's the first 3 words

>>24487501
3. Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra

>>24487509
>14)
Lewis Carroll when Alice cries so much she floods the world
>>24487523
>26)
Is that Molly from Necromancer with the cyber eys?
>30)
Sounds like a Moomin character
>>24487537
>43)
I recall moisture for the dead as a Dune phrase
>>24487550
>64)
That's Mr Toad who went on a wild ride.
>>24487571
>100)
Bible verse

>>24487566
>91)
It's been a dog's age since I've read Sorrows of Young Werther but this passage of some sad sack having cried all over the letter sounds like that guy.

>>24487571
36 feels like Augustine’s Confessions
81 I believe is a quote from Robert Frost, not sure from here
99 is Stoner
I can’t find the Nabokov which is bothering me

>>24488550
All good here, more or less:

>33. Dante, Commedia
To be precise, Canto 33 of the Inferno, near the end when they're approaching Satan.

>66. Goethe, Werther
Only a heart of stone could read all Werther's miseries without laughing.

>98. Plato, Apology
Well a bit after the apologyy since it’s Socrates actually dying.

>>24489204
>48
>Martin Chuzzlewit, Charles Dickens
This is already found. (‘Three Men In A Boat’)

>>24489220

>39 From near the beginning of Shelley's elegy to Keats, Adonais
Correct.

>>24489230

>35 guessing Douty, somewhere in Arabia Deserta
Right, Charles Montagu Doughty himself. After fifty pages or so you get used to the archaic language and realize that he is a fine fellow.

>>24489241

>22's Tennyson; title's the first 3 words
Right. From ‘The Princess’.

>>24489296

>3. Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
Correct. Antony not telling Lepidus anything useful. Not sure whether he is being good-humoured or contemptuous. Probably both. Lepidus is a bit of a nonentity.

>>24489408

>14)
>Lewis Carroll when Alice cries so much she floods the world.
>26)
>Is that Molly from Necromancer with the cyber eys?
>64)
>That's Mr Toad who went on a wild ride.
All correct although already found.

>30)
>Sounds like a Moomin character
Right. ‘Moominsummer Madness’. The fillyjonks are pathologically neat and ordered creatures although this particular individual falls into bad company, burns some KEEP OFF THE GRASS notices and gets arrested.

>43)
>I recall moisture for the dead as a Dune phrase
Right. Crying over someone is considered noteworthy because of the amount of water it gives away.

>100)
>Bible verse
Of course, but which one?

>>24489414

>91)
>Sorrows of Young Werther
>sounds like that guy.
It does, I admit, but Werther has already been found (#66).

>>24489436

>36 feels like Augustine’s Confessions
Right.

>81 I believe is a quote from Robert Frost, not sure from here
Right. ‘The Figure A Poem Makes’ is the title of the piece; it's the introduction to his Collected Poems.

>99 is Stoner
Correct, John Williams.

>I can’t find the Nabokov which is bothering me
It's a fairly famous chapter ending.

>>24489462
>>Bible verse
>Of course, but which one?
Psalm of David

>>24489470

>Psalm of David
Psalms 30:4-5 to be precise.

>>24488050
>One of the times I’m crediting the translator
So Virgil is a different one?
If that is the case
>92)
I recognize Priam as one of the men of Troy so The Aeneid

>>24489487
Oh I replied to the post before finishing reading it.

>>24487529
>32)
Diogenes Laertius? Guessing cause he seems the only ancient Greek guy left

>>24489498

>32)
>Diogenes Laertius? Guessing cause he seems the only ancient Greek guy left
Correct. ‘Lives And Opinions Of The Eminent Philosophers’; the chapter on Solon. Several famous people (e.g. Montaigne) have quoted this anecdote.

>>24489443
Oh, then in that case, it's the one I can't seem to locate rn (I'm pressed); longish passage, keyword
>brewery:
Great Expectations
I loathe Jerome K. Jerome; 3 Men is a complete rip-off (at the very least, 'in concept') of what RLS does 100x better in both An Inland Voyage and Travels on a Donkey.

>>24489944
>longish passage
>brewery
>Great Expectations
Correct. #20. Pip suffering humiliation at the hands of Estella.

>I loathe Jerome K. Jerome
That’s a shame.
>3 Men is a complete rip-off [...]
It's great!

>An Inland Voyage
>Travels on a Donkey.
I haven’t read these but I must look them up. 100 x TMIAB = pretty good.

>>24487566
93 is from The Dead by Joyce (he even says the title)
94 is The Sound and The Fury by Faulkner

>>24487571
97 must be The Sot-Weed Factor; the names clued me in

>>24490053
Excited, anon. I've received plenty of good recs (at a remove, but so what?) from you; glad to be of relatively slight service. You'll enjoy these; marvelous Summer reading

>>24490242

>93 is from The Dead by Joyce (he even says the title)
>94 is The Sound and The Fury by Faulkner
Both correct.

>>24490246
>97 must be The Sot-Weed Factor; the names clued me in
Right. (And Ebenezer is quoting Virgil from #92.)

>>24487501
>Maggie
5. This Miss Tulliver and mean brother Tom? If so, Eliot, Mill on the Floss

>>24487523
28 - I'm going to take a wild guess and say White Fang by Jack London
>>24487541
54 - The Faerie Queen by Spenser? I was going to guess Canterbury Tales, but the subject makes me think of Faerie Queen.

where does quiz anon get all his material from
is he incredibly well read or does he just crawl the internet for exceprts

>>24490504
>Maggie
>5. This Miss Tulliver
>Eliot, Mill on the Floss
Correct.

>mean brother
He's not that mean. What would you do if your little sister licked the paint off your lozenge box?

>>24490745
>54 - The Faerie Queen by Spenser? I was going to guess Canterbury Tales, but the subject makes me think of Faerie Queen.
Not in spenserian stanza mate

>>24490745

>28 - I'm going to take a wild guess and say White Fang by Jack London
"Wild" would be an appropriate sort of guess for White Fang, but nope. (WF is not in first-person, for one thing.)

>54 - The Faerie Queen by Spenser?
Nope. No Spenser in the Author List.

>I was going to guess Canterbury Tales, but the subject makes me think of Faerie Queen.
It’s not CT, but it is Chaucer (someone suggested that and I confirmed).

>>24490827
54, Chaucer, Troilus and Cressida

>>24487509
15. Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White?

>>24489468
>can't find the Nabokov
Think it's 90: Lolita

>>24487560
78: here's Undine among the translations, de la Motte Fouque

>>24490827
>Jack London
...
89
>Buck
Call of the Wild

>>24487560
76
>Rowena
Scott, Ivanhoe
*Of course, anyone in their right 21st c
mind preferred Rebecca in this one, despite her not really being an option

>>24491469
>54, Chaucer, Troilus and Cressida
Right.

>>24491567
>15. Wilkie Collins, The Woman in White?
Nope. This one has already been found; it’s The Hound of the Baskervilles (Watson hearing the housekeeper weeping about her convict son).

>>24487543
19 Spenser, FQ
27 poem is by Longfellow
29 is Donne, Weeping Valediction
53 Look Back in Anger, Osborne (someone told me about an Oasis reunion recently; is this true?)
Is 60 Iris Murdoch?
72 is Blake, probably from the Marriage of Heaven and Hell

>>24491840

>can't find the Nabokov
>Think it's 90: Lolita
Correct.

>>24491874
>78: here's Undine among the translations, de la Motte Fouque
Correct, although already found.

>>24491887

>Jack London
>89
>Buck
>Call of the Wild
Right.

>>24491911

>76
>Rowena
>Scott, Ivanhoe
Correct, although already ID’d.

>*Of course, anyone in their right 21st c
>mind preferred Rebecca in this one, despite her not really being an option
Scott obviously liked her.

>>24492137

>19 Spenser, FQ
>27 poem is by Longfellow
Correct, but already found. (27 = ‘Wreck of the Hesperus’)

>29 is Donne, Weeping Valediction
>53 Look Back in Anger, Osborne
Correct and you're the first.

>(someone told me about an Oasis reunion recently; is this true?)
No idea, sorry.

>Is 60 Iris Murdoch?
Nope. #60 and #71 can be matched to two prominently Roman Catholic authors in the list.

>72 is Blake, probably from the Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Correct, and you’re the first.

>>24487563
83. From a Raymond Carver poem, The Ashtray
75. Dylan Thomas, UM
59. First line doubles as a collection of Bukowski poems, so pretty sure this is Bukowski

>>24492498

>83. From a Raymond Carver poem, The Ashtray
Correct. From "Where Water Comes Together With Other Water". He's not as good a poet as he is a short story writer, but that's a high bar.

>75. Dylan Thomas, UM
Right, although others already got there.

>59. First line doubles as a collection of Bukowski poems
Pretty much. ‘It Catches My Heart In Its Hands’ is the CB title.

>so pretty sure this is Bukowski
And yet there’s no Bukowski in the author list. How can this be?

>>24488050
It's like you don't even realize how cringe you are.

>>24492558
>no Bukowski
Damn! was my immediate response, but it's not as if Bukowski being there would have remedied this unfortunate situation
>>24492561
Fuck off

>>24492694

>no Bukowski
>Damn! was my immediate response, but it's not as if Bukowski being there would have remedied this unfortunate situation
True but the Bukowski angle is still useful. Two possibilities: either this author is quoting Bukowski (in which case you need someone pretty modern), or Bukowski was quoting this author (in which case you’re looking for someone Bukowski liked).

>>24492825
Well, I'm aware of a few of his likings, of the listed Blake (taken- but just as well), maybe (59) Jeffers?

>>24492161
>RC authors
60. Graham Greene, The End of the Affair
71. Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

>>24487565
87. The tears are Pearl's
Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne

>>24493950
>maybe (59) Jeffers?
Right. A poem called "Hellenistics". Typical long ranting Jeffers lines. Also RJ was a combination of classical scholar and Uncle Ted-style barbarian backwoodsman, and you get both those aspects here.

>>24494688
>60. Graham Greene, The End of the Affair
>71. Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited
Right.

>>24494715
>87. The tears are Pearl's
>Scarlet Letter, Hawthorne
Correct.

>>24487509
11. Renata Adler, Speedboat (nyrb)

>>24495212
>11. Renata Adler, Speedboat
Correct. Perhaps no literal tears involved but a little variety never hurt.

>>24495374
Just out of curiosity, anon, have you read A. J. Liebling? My favorite doubles-as-a New Yorker staff writer. My favorites of his are The Honest Rainmaker, The Earl of Louisiana, and Mollie (one collection of his ww2 writings) but all his books are good (The Food of France now comes to mind..)

>>24495399
*actually, The Food of France is a Waverley Root title; the ultimate book that came to mind is actually entitled Between Meals (dining in post-War France)

>>24495399
>A. J. Liebling?
Nope, vaguely heard of him in relation to food but not read him. There's an infinite amount of stuff out there I haven't read :)

Bump

>>24487507
#6
Hazlitt from The English Comic Writers Lectures, first of the series
#9
I'm guessing that this is Henry James
>the present editor
If so, probably some short story or novella (not the Milly Theale I was expecting, but perhaps she's infra..)
#13
Gardner, Grendel
#16
Brings Gubbinal, Wallace Stevens to mind fwr, but this isn't him
>pushes a button
Probably Anne Sexton
17
>newspapers
Beckett's Molloy?

>>24497090
3/5 here:

>#6
>Hazlitt from The English Comic Writers Lectures, first of the series
Right. ‘On Wit And Humour’ is the title of the essay.

>#9
>I'm guessing that this is Henry James
Nope. A long maximalist sentence, yes, but unlike HJ (don’t @ me, Jamesians) it's actually fun to read. It's a work of fiction from someone much better known for non-fiction.

>#13
>Gardner, Grendel
Correct. Grendel hovering around outside the banquet hall trying to work out what’s going on.

>#16
>Brings Gubbinal, Wallace Stevens to mind fwr, but this isn't him
>pushes a button
>Probably Anne Sexton
Correct. ‘Hurry Up Please It’s Time’, from ‘The Death Notebooks’.

>17
>>newspapers
>Beckett's Molloy?
Nope. The emotion is a bit too raw and unironic for SB, I think. This one has already been found: Cormac McCarthy, ‘Suttree’.

>>24487539
49. Plath
83. Stevens, Course of a Particular

>>24498086
>49. Plath
Nope. The Plath entry is more “the world is out to get me”, the way she usually is.

>83. Stevens, Course of a Particular
Nope. This is definitely one of the trickier ones.

>>24487539
#49
Stevens, 'Another Weeping Woman'

>>24498480

>#49
>Stevens, 'Another Weeping Woman'
Correct. More accessible than usual for WS (i.e. you have some idea what it's about).

>>24487495 (OP)
Care to provide an update, OP?

65 is Portnoy’s complaint by Philip Roth

>>24487566
#91
>letter
Guess is Heloise to Abelard
>demanded of me
uh-oh?

>>24499415
>65 is Portnoy’s complaint by Philip Roth
No Roth in the author list (this author isn’t a million miles away from him, though).

>>24499745
>#91
>letter
>Guess is Heloise to Abelard
Correct.

>demanded of me
>uh-oh?
Just means the nuns who leant her the letter wanted it back, I guess. (She was in a convent at that point, wasn’t she?)

>>24499273

Current progress:—


3. William Shakespeare, ‘Antony and Cleopatra’

5. George Eliot, ‘The Mill on the Floss’

6. William Hazlitt, ‘On Wit And Humour’

8. Homer, ‘The Iliad’

11. Renata Adler, ‘Speedboat’
12. John Keats, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’
13. John Gardner, ‘Grendel’
14. Lewis Carroll, ‘Alice in Wonderland’
15. Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Hound Of The Baskervilles’

16. Anne Sexton, ‘Hurry Up Please It’s Time’ (‘The Death Notebooks’)
17. Cormac McCarthy, ‘Suttree’

19. John Milton, ‘Paradise Lost’
20. Charles Dickens, ‘Great Expectations’

22. Alfred Lord Tennyson, ‘The Princess’

26. William Gibson, ‘Neuromancer’
27. H. W. Longfellow, ‘The Wreck Of The Hesperus’

29. John Donne, ‘A Valediction: Of Weeping’
30. Tove Jansson, ‘Moominsummer Madness’

32. Diogenes Laertius, ‘Lives And Opinions Of The Eminent Philosophers: Solon’
33. Dante Alighieri, ‘Inferno’

35. Charles Montagu Doughty, ‘Travels In Arabia Deserta’

36. St. Augustine, ‘Confessions’

39. P. B. Shelley, ‘Adonais: An Elegy On The Death Of John Keats’

43. Frank Herbert, ‘Dune’
44. Ted Hughes, ‘Tales From Ovid’

48. Jerome K. Jerome, ‘Three Men In A Boat’
49. Wallace Stevens, 'Another Weeping Woman'

51. John Fowles, ‘The Collector’

53. John Osborne, ‘Look Back in Anger’
54. Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘Troilus And Cressida’

59. Robinson Jeffers, ‘Hellenistics’
60. Graham Greene, ‘The End of the Affair’

64. Kenneth Grahame, ‘The Wind In The Willows’

66. Goethe, ‘The Sorrows Of Young Werther’

71. Evelyn Waugh, ‘Brideshead Revisited’
72. William Blake, ‘The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell’
73. Herman Melville, ‘Moby Dick’
74. Kazuo Ishiguro, ‘The Remains Of The Day’

76. Walter Scott, ‘Ivanhoe’

78. Friedrich de la Motte Fouque, ‘Undine’

81. Robert Frost, ‘The Figure A Poem Makes’

83. Raymond Carver, ‘The Ashtray’ (‘Where Water Comes Together With Other Water’)
84. William Golding, ‘The Lord Of The Flies’
85. F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’

87. Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘The Scarlet Letter’

89. Jack London, ‘The Call of the Wild’
90. Vladimir Nabokov, ‘Lolita’

91. Heloise d’Argenteuil, letter to Abelard
92. Virgil, ‘The Aeneid’
93. James Joyce, ‘The Dead’
94. William Faulkner, ‘The Sound and The Fury’

97. John Barth, ‘The Sot-Weed Factor’
98. Plato, ‘Phaedo’
99. John Williams, ‘Stoner’
100. King David, ‘Psalms 30:4-5’


Just past half-way (55/100, I think).

>>24487501
1. Sylvia Plath, Applicant
2.
>the old phedinkus
Runyon (over Twain; plus, Twain was a lover)
4. must be Robert Burton, AM
*the update really helps, OP
7. Creepy. Going Highsmith, but it isn't one of the Ripleys
9. Dang, checked (the guesses): this isn't Henry James....
10. Because I've got Henry James on the brain rn I'm thinking Turn of the Screw! Turn of the Screw! but the concern expressed here is too legibly definite. It's probably Wilkie Collins, but this may have been tried already-- checking..
It has, but for 15, and this is 10:
Wilkie Collins

>>24500418
3/6 here:—


>1. Sylvia Plath, Applicant
Correct. From Ariel.

>2.
>the old phedinkus
>Runyon (over Twain; plus, Twain was a lover)
Right. From ‘Tobias The Terrible’. Small-town guy is sad because his GF thinks he's a wimp. He travels to the big city hoping to hobnob with gangsters and rehabilitate himself in her eyes. Visits gambling den. There's a police raid. All the gangsters give him their guns so they don't get pinched for carrying weapons. Tobias gets arrested with twelve guns on him and becomes a celebrity. Goes home and marries girl LIKE A BOSS.

I'm going to go on posting DR until people like him. Then once they like him I will go on posting him *because* they like him.

>4. must be Robert Burton, AM
Correct.

>7. Creepy. Going Highsmith, but it isn't one of the Ripleys
It isn't creepy! It's heartwarming. Well it could be creepy I suppose but it doesn't have to be. Not PH, anyway. This is a hard one.

>9. Dang, checked (the guesses): this isn't Henry James....
Lots of good stuff out there that isn't HJ.

>10.
>logic
>logic
>Wilkie Collins
Nope. Pretty much contemporaneous, though.

>>24487514
17) The Road, Mccarthy

You should retire a few guys like Mccarthy, Hemingway, Celine etc. their styles make them really easy to find.

>>24487543
58) Lolita, Nabokov

>>24487555
68) Winter's bone, Woodrell

>>24487557
73) Moby-dick, Melville

>>24500586

>17) The Road, Mccarthy
McCarthy, yes. The Road, no. It's already been ID'd as Suttree.

>You should retire a few guys like Mccarthy, Hemingway, Celine etc. their styles make them really easy to find.
But lots of good writers have distinctive styles. Can’t drop ’em all. I could start just saying ‘incorrect’ when someone gets the right author but not the right work, but that would be a bit unsporting.

>58) Lolita, Nabokov
Nope. Lolita has been found elsewhere (#90).

>68) Winter's bone, Woodrell
Correct. The body she's looking for being her father’s. Poor Jennifer Lawrence. I mean, poor Ree Dolly.

>73) Moby-dick, Melville
Correct, although already found.

>>24487495 (OP)
qrd?

>>24500681
He just did one here
>>24500001
Damn.. an ace away from five aughts

>>24500586
>you should retire
Some guy said the same thing about Heller last quiz, yet Heller remains at large. Also, 10 or so gimmes are good for team spirit

>>24487531
#25
I'm going with this as my own contribution to the hunt for Wilkie Collins (Moonstone-- which is the correct work, right?) because if it's not this one then it's #57....
#37
Topaz McGonagall (surely not Kipling
>gurgling
nor the Omar Khayyam poet..)
#40
Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs
#41
>perhapses
Must be Beckett in English.. I think...
#42
>thumbs
Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls..
#45
This is Look Homeward, Angel
the howler's Eugene Gant's ridiculous father
#57
Wilkie Collins, Moonstone..
*far more likely given the narrative set up, plus 'go to bed with it' feels not just off, but way off
#69
This is Edward Fitzgerald. I always revert to the thought that the Rubaiyat is 'in the manner of' and not a 'translation of'
Even now I'm not so sure; I should probably g it

>>24501002
Mostly good here:—


>#25
>I'm going with this as my own contribution to the hunt for Wilkie Collins (Moonstone-- which is the correct work, right?) because if it's not this one then it's #57....
Naaa. Tone all wrong. WC is serious (well, melodrama-serious).

>#37
>Topaz McGonagall
Of course. ‘The Battle Of Corunna’. I expected this to be one of the first to go. Anyone who speaks the verse aloud should recognize the unique William M. metrical touch right away.

>#40
>Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs
Correct. Buffalo Bill (and Ardelia Mapp the roommate) both in the film, although I think they dropped the bit about the moth drinking tears.

>#41
>>perhapses
>Must be Beckett
Right. ‘The Unnameable’.
> in English.. I think...
Maybe should have marked this one as a translation since he did write the trilogy in French originally. But he translated this book into English himself, which makes a difference I think.

>#42
>>thumbs
>Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls..
‘Even Cowgirls Get The Blues’, right. Sissy plus thumbs a big hint.

>#45
>This is Look Homeward, Angel
Sure is. Thomas Wolfe.
>the howler's Eugene Gant's ridiculous father
One man's ridiculous is another man's magnificent. He lives by his own rules and we have to respect that.

>#57
>Wilkie Collins, Moonstone..
Correct. Rosanna Spearman's suicide-note-cum-confession, basically.
>*far more likely given the narrative set up, plus 'go to bed with it' feels not just off, but way off
As mentioned above.

>#69
>This is Edward Fitzgerald.
Right, Rubaiyat.
>I always revert to the thought that the Rubaiyat is 'in the manner of' and not a 'translation of'
Well that's why I credited Fitzgerald rather than Omar K. as author (even though it's marked as a translation).

>>24487507
9. Carlyle, Sartor Resartus
The Paul is a fictionalized Jean Paul (Richter) I think, the laugher is Teufelsdröckh-- the editor recounts the one time in his life that Teufelsdröckh laughed (he almost immediately regains his composure after this, however).

>>24500535
>pretty much contemporaneous, though
Then 10 is from the perspective of a woman, and this ain't Jane Eyre:
Charlotte Brontë, Villette

>>24487539
#50
>Balthazar
Has to be from Durrell's Alexandra Quartet
#61
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park (I forget the little prude's name)

>>24487495 (OP)
>3
Is this As You Like It?
>4
Burton's anatomy of melancholy
>7
White Noise?
>10
Could be Stoner
>32
Plutarch somewhere.
>54
Canterbury tales, possibly the clerk's or knight's tale.
>71
Brideshead Revisited
>77
Confessions
>100
psalms

>>24501725
>9. Carlyle, Sartor Resartus
Correct.

>the editor recounts the one time in his life that Teufelsdröckh laughed (he almost immediately regains his composure after this, however).
I always assumed this is a reference to Schopenhauer, who supposedly laughed only once in his life: when he heard about a donkey kicking a philosopher, which he felt summed up the human condition.

Maybe it’s just a coincidence, though. SR was published in 1833-4, and Schopenhauer lived until 1860. So at the time of writing, Carlyle wouldn't have known for sure S. only laughed once in his life.

On the other hand, S. definitely had a reputation for dourness by that point, and maybe the donkey incident had already happened, and Carlyle had heard about it (he was very into German stuff).

So on balance, I'm still going with it being a deliberate reference.

>>24501816
>Then 10 is from the perspective of a woman
Never stated explicitly but yes, strongly implied.

> and this ain't Jane Eyre
It ain’t.

>Charlotte Brontë, Villette
Correct. The child (Polly) is much the best thing in the book in my opinion. We don’t get enough of her, but she's up there with Alice and Heidi in the cute girls pantheon.

>>24502520
>#50
>Balthazar
>Has to be from Durrell's Alexandra Quartet
Correct. Mountolive.

>#61
>Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Also correct.

>(I forget the little prude's name)
The what? Fanny Price isn’t a little prude; she's a pillar of moral strength and a twenty-four-carat sweetheart. Who else in her position would take such a courageous stand against the forces of degeneracy, intrigue, hedonism and amateur dramatics?

All modern commentators hate her, which is reason enough to show she's on the side of the angels.

>>24502536

>3
>Is this As You Like It?
Right guy, wrong work. It's already been found; it's Antony & Cleopatra.

>4
>Burton's anatomy of melancholy
Correct, although also already found.

>7
>White Noise?
Nope. No DeLillo in the author list. This is a very tricky one.

>10
>Could be Stoner
Nope. Stoner is #99. This one just got found: Villette, by Charlotte Bronte.

>32
>Plutarch somewhere.
No P. in the author list either. This one is from the chapter on Solon in Diogenes Laertius’ ‘Lives And Opinions Of The Eminent Philosophers’.

>54
>Canterbury tales, possibly the clerk's or knight's tale.
Again, right guy wrong book. It's Troilus and Cressida.

>71
>Brideshead Revisited
Correct, although already found.

>77
>Confessions
Correct. Saint Augustine.

>100
>psalms
Correct, although already guessed.

>>24502910
>77
>Confessions
>Correct. Saint Augustine.

I just noticed, someone suggested here
>>24489436
that #36 might be St. Augustine, and I said here
>>24489468
that it was.

That was a LIE. #36 isn’t St. Augustine at all! It’s someone completely different. So #36 is still up for grabs.

>>24502847
>deliberate reference
Only problem here is that 'clothes philosophy' doesn't really fit Schopenhauer's philosophy (Schopenhauer, who was VERY anti-Hegel) at all. Aar, I always read Teufelsdröckh as a kind of mish mash Schelling-Hegel (and whoever else was writing in this 'dialectical tradition' post-Kant) whereas Schopenhauer begins as a very *literary* (pre-Nietzsche) neo-Kantian, and pretty much remains that way

>>24503070
Well the book as a whole is definitely a poke at Hegel and the Hegel school, but that doesn't mean TC didn't take one incident from someone else. He's laughing at German Idealism in general, as well as Hegel in particular.

>>24502930
>completely different
This is a complete lark, but maybe #36 is Pessoa?

>>24503098
>This is a complete lark
Larks are good, when they work.
>but maybe #36 is Pessoa?
Correct. Book of Disquiet.

>>24503097
Agreed, pretty much. One thing I edited out of my response (which I now wish I hadn't) was an 'e.g. Coleridge' after 'others writing in that tradition'. The key-word is in fact mish-mash

>>24503102
Dang. Hoo-ray!

>>24487539
46 is Pat Highsmith from her journals, papers published a few years ago. Tricky.

>>24503387
>46 is Pat Highsmith from her journals
Correct.

>papers published a few years ago. Tricky.
Yeah, maybe a bit of a low blow, given that we generally avoid modern stuff. But it was *written* in 1946. Also I think there's more good interesting stuff in her journals than in her books. Worth bringing it to people’s attention.

>>24487571
#96
>Emmy
Amelia Sedley weeps alot throughout the course of Thackeray's Vanity Fair
#95
Vollmann, The Rider section of Poor People (reading Europe Central this Summer, finally, along with Littell's The Kindly Ones-- just got copies last week)
#86
Isak Dinesen, one of the 7 Gothic Tales but I can't remember the title

>>24503786
Two out of three ain’t bad:

>#96
>Emmy
>Amelia Sedley weeps a lot throughout the course of Thackeray's Vanity Fair
She sure does.

>#95
>Vollmann, The Rider section of Poor People
No, but it is a bit like him I guess now I think about it.

>#86
>Isak Dinesen, one of the 7 Gothic Tales
Correct. ‘The Deluge At Norderney’.

>>24487541
52. 'Solitaire,' John Updike, from The Early Stories.

>>24504239

>52. 'Solitaire,' John Updike
Correct. One of his most famous early stories. Quite autobiographical apparently (which doesn’t reflect well on him).

>>24487555
67. Kipling, I think

>>24504766
>67. Kipling, I think
Correct. Stalky and Co.

>>24487531
#38
Though I haven't been quite through all of the clues yet, I think that this one here is probably a safe bet for the out-standing Samuel Richardson. Clarissa
#63
Is *this* maybe Vollmann in a story or something?
#70
Ok, this is Wharton, Age of Innocence iinm
[#75
You left this one blank, but Dylan Thomas has been guessed already. Is there a missing still active number?]

>>24505697
*had been

>>24505697

>#38
>safe bet
>Samuel Richardson. Clarissa
Correct. After C. dies every other character in the book sits around for fifty pages weeping and saying how great she was.

>#63
>Is *this* maybe Vollmann in a story or something?
Nope. The hunt continues.

>#70
>Ok, this is Wharton, Age of Innocence iinm
Correct. May doing whatever it takes to get / keep her man. But she’s a 21-year-old Winona Ryder, so we forgive her.

>#75
>Dylan Thomas has been guessed already
Leaving this blank was just a mistake. This is confirmed as Under Milk Wood.
>Is there a missing still active number?
Don’t think so. Might need to count them, which is pretty arduous.

>>24505722
>Winona Rider
The Faust scene (Gounod opera) was filmed at the Academy of Music Opera House in Philadelphia, the oldest continuously functioning opera house in the States (Whitman saw many operas there when he lived in Camden). My parents used to drag my sister and me there for Sunday matinees when I was kid; wound up loving opera as a result, however

>>24487560
Though D. H. Lawrence rhymes with Florence I'll guess this one's rather Henry James, Portrait of a Lady (some of which takes place in Florence): #79.

>>24505755
I love how much it was actually correct to make your kids do things they hate. If only more parents still had the willpower to make their children not grow up into cultureless cretins.

>>24506272
>#79
>Though D. H. Lawrence rhymes with Florence
A compelling argument, for sure. . .
>I'll guess this one's rather Henry James, Portrait of a Lady
. . . but this is correct.
>(some of which takes place in Florence)
Also the passage is a pretty typical chapter ending, given that Isabel spends half the book rejecting the guy she obviously ought not to reject, thereby making both of them miserable.

>>24487566
I decided to put on my Elizabeth Smart goggles and inspect all the entries back to front for the most likely suspect. But something caught my eye immediately in #95
>press corps
P. J. O'Rourke?
The finale of the but renders this likely, I feel

>>24506824
*bit

>>24506824
>#95
>P. J. O'Rourke?
Correct. An article covering the 1986 elections in the Philippines. ‘Goons, Guns and Gold’, included in ‘Republican Party Reptile’.

>>24487514
18. I think this is most likely Lucia Berlin; strange, but of all the authors in the list she's the one I've read most recently (Manual.. really is a very good collection of stories btw) yet I wasn't really seeing her anywhere.
Looking up 'pinche' (Mexican-Spanish) however, pretty much confirmed this for me.
25.
>Howandaland (or is it Howondaland?)
Pratchett, DW

>>24487518
#23
is John Bunyan, but he had to be looked for specifically in order to be seen properly as there are a few others that seem as if they *could* be him. Pilgrim's Progress. (I thought Bunyan would be among the first I got; but I now remember, back when I read him, how more modern his prose seemed than whatever it was I had been expecting)
#56
Of the remaining translations, this seems most likely Dostoyevsky. I have read White Nights, so that's my guess, but it feels a little off. #82 *could* be one of the many women who open up to Alyosha in Karamazov, but he would have to be recounting this story himself (which is possible) and, heck, the woman praying before the image (icon) and a very non RC notion of confession prompts a double guess, here
#82
Dostoyevsky, Karamazov
#21
I have not read Zbigniew Herbert, but I know enough about him to rest here with unwarranted confidence. Herbert, then, in one of his fantastical essays

>>24505722
OP
I had one more author than number because fwr I forgot to scratch out 'John Fowles' on my own list. Sorry for the inconvenience

So is it just like one guy doing all the guessing or are the a bunch of anons coming from different angles?

>>24507486
>18. I think this is most likely Lucia Berlin
>Looking up 'pinche' (Mexican-Spanish) however, pretty much confirmed this for me.
Correct. It's ‘Wait A Minute’, in ‘A Manual For Cleaning-Women’.

>25.
>Howandaland (or is it Howondaland?)
>Pratchett
For Pratchett aficionados, A CHARACTER WHO TALKS LIKE THIS is the biggest hint, I think.
>DW
Well, DW, yes, but which one? Perhaps unfair to ask for specifics with a fairly light author. It's RM. Near the end, when Death is shopping for the best possible gifts for a lady.

>>24507971

>#23
>is John Bunyan
>Pilgrim's Progress.
Correct.

>#56
>most likely Dostoyevsky. I have read White Nights, so that's my guess
Correct.
but it feels a little off.
Well, translations are always dodgy. People think Tolstoy and Dostoevsky have the same prose style because it’s all Constance Garnett.

>#82
>Dostoyevsky, Karamazov
Let’s ignore this.

>#21
>I have not read Zbigniew Herbert, but I know enough about him to rest here
Correct.
>one of his fantastical essays
One of the prose poems in ‘Hermes, Dog and Star’. More translation but co możesz zrobić?

>>24508214
>So is it just like one guy doing all the guessing or are the a bunch of anons coming from different angles?
In general the latter, although at the moment it looks like the former. Hard to be sure though, what with anons being anonymous.

>>24508214
It's at least 2 (after 60 or so have been answered) but probably no more than 4 then. When the puzzle's winding down a few of the first crowd return.

Not OP, 14 left
*precedes a translation
#'s: 7, *24, 28, 31, 34, 47, 55, 58, 62, 63, 65, 80, *82, 88
Authors:
John Braine
Janet Frame
Joseph Heller
R. A. Lafferty, Pär Lagerkvist, Laurie Lee (a dude, Autobiographical Trilogy), D. H. Lawrence
Iris Murdoch, David Markson
Mervyn Peake, Manuel Puig
Elizabeth Smart (famous abductee)
Mark Twain
Richard Vollmann

Bump

>>24508483
Last two translations are pretty clear, I think
24 is Puig, Kiss of the Spider Woman, maybe
82 is Lagerkvist, because the author of Barabbas was clearly not averse to the use religious themes or characterization. Have no idea of the work.
>puzzle
Is a matter of perspective; most view this as a quiz, a few as a puzzle; together they're able to compete this thing, though probably not for much longer!

>>24510302

>24 is Puig, Kiss of the Spider Woman, maybe
Correct.

>82 is Lagerkvist
Right.
>Have no idea of the work.
It's The Dwarf. (More well-known than Barabbas, I would have said.) The passage quoted is so ghastly it’s funny. Narrator can't see how cruel he's being (and wouldn't care anyway) but the woman is made a saint after she dies.

>>24508483
>Mark Twain
A shot in the dark but 47 may be one of Twain's famous witticisms.

If that is wrong 58 may be Joan of Arc

>>24511074
>Mark Twain
>A shot in the dark but 47 may be one of Twain's famous witticisms.
Nope. Not MT’s style. (The bit about the head in refers to something earlier in the book. Not ideal to present it stand-alone like this but sometimes that can’t be avoided.)

>If that is wrong 58 may be Joan of Arc
Not this either. This is set in England, and much more recently than 1400.

>>24511099
Looking through the remaining crossing some that were too modern or too fantasy I crossed out most left. I saw 88 and checked if Twain ever wrote about the Crusades and saw he did write a travel log about visiting the area.
88 Innocent Abroad

>>24511099
Dif anon
>set in England
I'd been reading Dorchester as 'Boston'
>guilt
OP cited a John Braine book in a different thread, which I immediately g'd (because I was not familiar with him)...
58. John Braine, Room at the Top?
*this is fair play, I think, though I'm quite possibly wrong

>>24511123
>88 Innocent Abroad
Innocents Abroad, yes. The book is mostly mocking contemporary travel writers (particularly a guy called William Cowper Prime) who (in Twain’s opinion) were too reverential & sentimental about Europe and the Middle East.

>>24511167
>58. John Braine, Room at the Top?
Correct. M.C. goes off for a few days in the country with the older (married) woman he’s in love with; this passage is from the return trip. No great spoiler to say things don’t end happily.

>>24487523
#28
>smartly
Where the heck is Elizabeth Smart? This is from Cider with Rosie, Laurie Lee
#47
>non sequitur
This could just as easily be from about half of the remaining possibilities, but I'll guess Elizabeth Smart here, My Story (what else has she written? where else can she be?)

>>24511383

>#28
>This is from Cider with Rosie, Laurie Lee
Sure is. Right at the start, when the guy giving him a lift sets him down in the village.

>>24511383
>Where the heck is Elizabeth Smart?
She's hiding in plain sight.

>#47
>non sequitur
Yeah, as I said just above, the second line doesn't really make much sense in isolation. It's a reference to something earlier in the book.
>This could just as easily be from about half of the remaining possibilities
Well . . . one of the remaining authors is most well known for one book with a very distinctive style. This passage is from that book.

>but I'll guess Elizabeth Smart here, My Story (what else has she written? where else can she be?)
Ahhh . . . . NOW I understand. I was wondering why E.S. was causing such problems.

You think I'm quoting the Elizabeth Smart who got abducted.

She won't help you in this quiz. (I didn't even know she existed until I checked a few minutes ago.)

>>24511431
Kek. She was big news here in the States, where Utah (and Idaho) kookiness and violence (think Krakauer, Naifeh..) tend to capture the attention of the entire country whenever it happens, which seems often

>>24511431
>most well known for one..
Where the heck is Joseph Heller anon this quiz? ..Though there may be another author left who fits this description as well or even better, Catch-22 smacks me in the face here- to quote Laurie Lee- 'like a bully'
#47
Heller, C22

>>24511483
>47)
Nope. (The Heller is not Catch-22.)

>>24511483
>#47
>Heller, C22
Nope. (This isn’t JH, and the JH isn’t Catch-22.)

47. It seems that By Grand Central Station I sat down and Wept is a one offer; is this the correct Elizabeth Smart one?

>>24512211
>47. It seems that By Grand Central Station I sat down and Wept is a one offer; is this the correct Elizabeth Smart one?
The Elizabeth Smart entry is indeed By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept. But it isn't #47. She's fighting right to the last.

Bump

>>24487550
#47
Is this David Markson?
#62
Given the subject matter of the revealed book, this is most likely Elizabeth Smart

>>24487529
31. D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow

>>24513384

>#47
>Is this David Markson?
It is. Wittgenstein’s Mistress. The head falling off bit is a reference to an earlier comment; namely, that the first time Tchaikovsky conducted an orchestra he was worried his head was going to fall off and so held on to it firmly with one hand throughout the performance.

>#62
>Given the subject matter of the revealed book, this is most likely Elizabeth Smart
Correct. Well-written for what it is, although what it is is solipsistic self-pity taken to the point of absurdity.

>>24513417

>31. D. H. Lawrence, The Rainbow
Correct. Ursula still in the process of finding herself™.

>>24487550
If 63 is Joseph Heller (Something Happened?) and 80 R. A. Lafferty (?) then the dialogue in 65 is probably from Richard Vollmann. So
63. Joseph Heller, Something Happened (certainly this is Helleresque, at least)
65. Richard Vollmann..
80. R. A. Lafferty..

>>24514030

>63. Joseph Heller, Something Happened
Nope.
(certainly this is Helleresque, at least)
I agree, the general setup (cynical selfish first-person narrator with a certain ironic detatchment) is just like Something Happened. But I wouldn't say the style is like it.

>65. Richard Vollmann.
Nope. No easy handholds on this one, I admit. Just a matter of having read it recently perhaps.

>80. R. A. Lafferty..
Also nope. R A Lafferty does have a strong undercurrent of cruelty, so not a million miles away from this. But he's also relentlessly wacky and weird. (He's very much science fiction, which this isn't.)

>>24514185
Dang. I thought I'd get at least one here.
Then 80 must be from the Gormenghast series, Mervyn Peake.
I'll re-study the others later

>>24514185
>relentlessly wacky and weird...science fiction
Does this mean mythographical, as well?
#34
R. A. Lafferty

>>24514223
>Then 80 must be from the Gormenghast series, Mervyn Peake.
Correct. Gormenghast (Book 2). A lot of the first half is about the machinations of a bunch of absurd schoolmasters.

>>24514304
>#34
>R. A. Lafferty
Correct. The end of a story called “Funnyfingers”. It’s . . . funny.

>>24499988
At the stage where it behoves one sift through guesses; if 65 can't be Vollmann, and isn't
>a million miles away from [Roth]
(which I'm reading as an overstatement, of course) then it's
#65
Joseph Heller
Because this suddenly reminds me of the Yossarian way of 'reasoning,' I'll further guess the work is Closing Time

>>24514802

>logic
>logic
>#65
>Joseph Heller
Correct.

>Closing Time
Nope. It's Something Happened. (Narrator is a real S.O.B. to his wife, who is one of the few good-natured people in the book.)

Because Vollmann can't be 63 it's either Frame or Murdoch. Tough, but I'll go
63. Iris Murdoch
55. William Vollmann
7. Janet Frame. Is this Owls Do Cry? I hope so. There's a concern for wellness here not present in 63 which turned the tide for me with this one.

>>24515616

>63. Iris Murdoch
Right. The Sea, The Sea. Arrowby (the narrator) has made about half a dozen women unhappy in his life without ever really thinking he’s done anything wrong.

>55. William Vollmann
Nope.

>7. Janet Frame. Is this Owls Do Cry? I hope so.
Nope, sorry. The JF entry is pretty obscure. It does include a title drop, though, which is something.

>>24516839
#55
Janet Frame
The story is, 'How can I get in touch with Persia?'
#7
William Vollmann
One of the Rainbow Stories? I recollect that was the Vollmann collection last quiz, so.. maybe I'll get lucky

>>24516870

>#55
>Janet Frame
>The story is, 'How can I get in touch with Persia?'
Correct. J.F. is bonkers but not bad, and writers from New Zealand don’t seem to be that thick on the ground, so it doesn’t hurt to put her out there a bit.

>#7
>William Vollmann
>One of the Rainbow Stories? I recollect that was the Vollmann collection last quiz, so.. maybe I'll get lucky
Yes, carried over from last time. The section is called ‘Yellow Rose’ (it's about the author’s relationship with a Korean girl, haha).


That wraps it up I think. Not surprising that these were the last two, although some others were obscure as well (16, 34, 83).

Quite protracted at the end so perhaps worth listing the answers.

>>24516933


ANSWERS

1. Sylvia Plath, ‘The Applicant’
2. Damon Runyon, ‘Tobias The Terrible’
3. William Shakespeare, ‘Antony And Cleopatra’
4. Robert Burton, ‘Anatomy Of Melancholy’
5. George Eliot, ‘The Mill On The Floss’

6. William Hazlitt, ‘On Wit And Humour’
7. William Vollmann, ‘The Rainbow Stories: Yellow Rose’
8. Homer, ‘The Iliad’
9. Thomas Carlyle, ‘Sartor Resartus’
10. Charlotte Bronte, ‘Villette’

11. Renata Adler, ‘Speedboat’
12. John Keats, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’
13. John Gardner, ‘Grendel’
14. Lewis Carroll, ‘Alice In Wonderland’
15. Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Hound Of The Baskervilles’

16. Anne Sexton, ‘Hurry Up Please It’s Time’ (‘The Death Notebooks’)
17. Cormac McCarthy, ‘Suttree’
18. Lucia Berlin, ‘Wait A Minute’ (‘A Manual For Cleaning Women’)
19. John Milton, ‘Paradise Lost’
20. Charles Dickens, ‘Great Expectations’

21. Zbigniew Herbert, ‘Hermes, Dog and Star’
22. Alfred Lord Tennyson, ‘The Princess’
23. John Bunyan, ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress’
24. Manuel Puig, ‘Kiss Of The Spider Woman’
25. Terry Pratchett, ‘Reaper Man’

26. William Gibson, ‘Neuromancer’
27. H. W. Longfellow, ‘The Wreck Of The Hesperus’
28. Laurie Lee, ‘Cider With Rosie’
29. John Donne, ‘A Valediction: Of Weeping’
30. Tove Jansson, ‘Moominsummer Madness’

31. D. H. Lawrence, ‘The Rainbow’
32. Diogenes Laertius, ‘Lives And Opinions Of The Eminent Philosophers: Solon’
33. Dante Alighieri, ‘The Divine Comedy: Inferno’
34. R. A. Lafferty, ‘Funnyfingers’
35. Charles Montagu Doughty, ‘Travels In Arabia Deserta’

36. St. Augustine, ‘Confessions’
37. William McGonagall, ‘The Battle Of Corunna’
38. Samuel Richardson, ‘Clarissa’
39. P. B. Shelley, ‘Adonais: An Elegy On The Death Of John Keats’
40. Thomas Harris, ‘The Silence Of The Lambs’

41. Samuel Beckett, ‘The Unnameable’
42. Tom Robbins, ‘Even Cowgirls Get The Blues’
43. Frank Herbert, ‘Dune’
44. Ted Hughes [tr.], ‘Tales From Ovid’
45. Thomas Wolfe, ‘Look Homeward, Angel’

46. Patricia Highsmith, Notebooks
47. David Markson, ‘Wittgenstein’s Mistress’
48. Jerome K. Jerome, ‘Three Men In A Boat’
49. Wallace Stevens, 'Another Weeping Woman'
50. Lawrence Durrell, ‘Mountolive’


[1/2]

>>24516936

51. John Fowles, ‘The Collector’
52. John Updike, ‘Solitaire’
53. John Osborne, ‘Look Back in Anger’
54. Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘Troilus And Cressida’
55. Janet Frame, ‘How Can I Get In Touch With Persia?’

56. Fyodor Dostoevsky, ‘White Nights’
57. Wilkie Collins, ‘The Moonstone’
58. John Braine, ‘Room At The Top’
59. Robinson Jeffers, ‘Hellenistics’
60. Graham Greene, ‘The End of the Affair’

61. Jane Austen, ‘Mansfield Park’
62. Elizabeth Smart, ‘By Grand Central Station I Sat Down And Wept’
63. Iris Murdoch, ‘The Sea, The Sea’
64. Kenneth Grahame, ‘The Wind In The Willows’
65. Joseph Heller, ‘Something Happened’

66. J. W. von Goethe, ‘The Sorrows Of Young Werther’
67. Rudyard Kipling, ‘Stalky & Co’
68. Daniel Woodrell, ‘Winter’s Bone’
69. Edward Fitzgerald [tr.], ‘The Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam’
70. Edith Wharton, ‘The Age Of Innocence’

71. Evelyn Waugh, ‘Brideshead Revisited’
72. William Blake, ‘The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell’
73. Herman Melville, ‘Moby Dick’
74. Kazuo Ishiguro, ‘The Remains Of The Day’
75. Dylan Thomas, ‘Under Milk Wood’

76. Walter Scott, ‘Ivanhoe’
77. St. Augustine, ‘Confessions’
78. Friedrich de la Motte Fouque, ‘Undine’
79. Henry James, ‘Portrait Of A Lady’
80. Mervyn Peake, ‘Gormenghast’

81. Robert Frost, ‘The Figure A Poem Makes’
82. Pär Lagerkvist, ‘The Dwarf’
83. Raymond Carver, ‘The Ashtray’ (‘Where Water Comes Together With Other Water’)
84. William Golding, ‘The Lord Of The Flies’
85. F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’

86. Isak Dinesen, ‘The Deluge At Norderney’ (‘Seven Gothic Tales’)
87. Nathaniel Hawthorne, ‘The Scarlet Letter’
88. Mark Twain¸ ‘Innocents Abroad’
89. Jack London, ‘The Call of the Wild’
90. Vladimir Nabokov, ‘Lolita’

91. Heloise d’Argenteuil, letter to Peter Abelard
92. Virgil, ‘The Aeneid’
93. James Joyce, ‘The Dead’ (‘Dubliners’)
94. William Faulkner, ‘The Sound and The Fury’
95. P. J. O’Rourke, ‘Goons Guns And Gold’

96. W. M. Thackeray, ‘Vanity Fair’
97. John Barth, ‘The Sot-Weed Factor’
98. Plato, ‘Phaedo’
99. John Williams, ‘Stoner’
100. King David, ‘Psalms’


[2/2]

>>24516941
>>24516936
Thanks OP

>>24516936
Cheers, OP
Though I haven't added Damon Runyon to my to-read list yet, I did add five or so others. Again, thanks for another Quiz!