[M]oreover, That Everybody Had A Right To Their Own Opinions, Grounds Or No Grounds[.]

[M]oreover, that everybody had a right to their own opinions, grounds or no grounds[.]

Silas Marner by George Eliot (via wholesomeobsessive)

Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes with the prostration of thought under an overpowering passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities, that belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated by the external fact.

Silas Marner by George Eliot (via wholesomeobsessive)

He probes his weaknesses.  To magniloquent?  Too spoony?  ‘Too old?’ he ventures. 'We’re all over fifty, Arthur.  It’s not that you’re -’ 'Wait, I’m still -’ ’-a bad writer.'  Finley pauses for effect.  'It’s that you’re a bad gay.’ Less can think of nothing to say; this attack comes on an undefended flank. 'It is our duty to show something beautiful from our world.  The gay world.  But in your books, you make the characters suffer without reward.  If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Republican.  Kalipso was beautiful.  So full of sorrow.  But so incredibly self-hating.  A man washes ashore on an island and has a gay affair for years.  But then he leaves to go find his wife!  You have to do better.  For us.  Inspire us, Arthur.  Aim higher.  I’m so sorry to talk this way, but it has to be said.’ At last Less manages to speak: 'A bad gay?’

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)

His Swift isn’t a hero. He’s a fool.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)

‘She told me she met the love of her life,’ Zohra says at last, still staring out the window. 'You read poems about it, you hear stories about it, you hear Sicilians talk about being struck by lightning. We know there’s no love of your life. Love isn’t terrifying like that. It’s walking the fucking dog so the other one can sleep in, it’s doing taxes, it’s cleaning the bathroom without hard feelings. It’s having an ally in life. It’s not fire, it’s not lightning. It’s what she always had with me. Isn’t it? But what if she’s right, Arthur? What if the Sicilians are right? That it’s this earth-shattering thing she felt? Something I’ve never felt. Have you?’

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)

‘It was…,’ he starts, stumbling on a rock in the path, then starts again: 'It was about a middle-aged gay man walking around San Francisco.  And, you know, his…his sorrows…'  Her face has begun to fold inward in a dubious expression, and he finds himself trailing off.  From the front of the group, the journalists are shouting in Arabic. Zohra askes, 'Is it a white middle-aged man?’ 'Yes.’ 'A white middle-aged American man walking around with his white middle-aged American sorrows?’ 'Jesus, I guess so.’ 'Arthur.  Sorry to tell you this.  It’s a little hard to feel sorry for a guy like that.’ 'Even gay?’ 'Even gay.’ 'Bugger off.'  He did not know he was going to say this. She stops walking, points at his chest, and grins.  'Good for you,’ she says.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)