![]() ![]() Twain grew up in Hannibal, Missouri, which would later provide the setting for Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer. He is noted for his novels Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885), called "the Great American Novel", and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876). ![]() Samuel Langhorne Clemens, better known by his pen name Mark Twain, was an American author and humorist. We hope you’ll join us.Librarian Note: There is more than one author by this name in the Goodreads database. That we have the best of both worlds at BookQuoters we read books cover-to-cover but Typical of the Information Age but is a habit disdained by some diehard readers. World conversely, gleaning the main ideas of a book via a quote or a quick summary is Books are seen by some as a throwback to a previous Submissions from our visitors and will select the quotes we feel are most appealing toįounded in 2023, BookQuoters has quickly become a large and vibrant community of people ![]() Interesting, well written and has potential to enhance the reader’s life. We thoughtfully gather quotes from our favorite books, both classic and current, andĬhoose the ones that are most thought-provoking. For all of us, quotes are a great way to remember a bookĪnd to carry with us the author’s best ideas. For some of us a quote becomes a mantra, a goal or a More via texts, memes and sound bytes, short but profound quotes from books have become Memorable and interesting quotes from great books. Imperfect Chemistry by Mary Frame About BookQuotersīookQuoters is a community of passionate readers who enjoy sharing the most meaningful, I love them for their witless platitudes, for their supernatural ability to bore, for their delightful asinine vanity, for their luxuriant fertility of imagination, for their startling, their brilliant, their overwhelming mendacity!” They sneer at your most inoffensive suggestions they laugh unfeelingly at your treasured dreams of foreign lands they brand the statements of your traveled aunts and uncles as the stupidest absurdities they deride your most trusted authors and demolish the fair images they have set up for your willing worship with the pitiless ferocity of the fanatic iconoclast! But still I love the Old Travelers. Then they open their throttle valves, and how they do brag, and sneer, and swell, and soar, and blaspheme the sacred name of Truth! Their central idea, their grand aim, is to subjugate you, keep you down, make you feel insignificant and humble in the blaze of their cosmopolitan glory! They will not let you know anything. They always throw out a few feelers they never cast themselves adrift till they have sounded every individual and know that he has not traveled. We love to hear them prate and drivel and lie. I shall dream that it is resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its dead eyes I shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs.” I am sorry I saw it, because I shall always see it, now. It was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination about it some where. A skinned man would be likely to look that way, unless his attention were occupied with some other matter. It looked natural, because somehow it looked as if it were in pain. The figure was that of a man without a skin with every vein, artery, muscle, every fibre and tendon and tissue of the human frame, represented in detail. “The guide showed us a coffee-colored piece of sculpture which he said was considered to have come from the hand of Phidias, since it was not possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature with such faultless accuracy. ― Mark Twain, quote from The Innocents Abroad "Oh, sons of classic Italy, is the spirit of enterprise, of self-reliance, of noble endeavor, utterly dead within ye? Curse your indolent worthlessness, why don't you rob your church?” I fell down and worshiped it, but when the filthy beggars swarmed around me the contrast was too striking, too suggestive, and I said. Look at the grande Doumo of Florence - a vast pile that has been sapping the purses of her citizens for five hundred years, and is not nearly finished yet. It is the wretchedest, princeliest land on earth. And for every beggar in America, Italy can show a hundred - and rags and vermin to match. All the churches in an ordinary American city put together could hardly buy the jeweled frippery in one of her hundred cathedrals. She is today one vast museum of magnificence and misery. “As far as I can see, Italy, for fifteen hundred years, has turned all her energies, all her finances, and all her industry to the building up of a vast array of wonderful church edifices, and starving half her citizens to accomplish it. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |