Simon Watched Her Surreptitiously, The Worry Plain On His Face, And Suddenly She Hated His Doggy Loyalty,

Simon watched her surreptitiously, the worry plain on his face, and suddenly she hated his doggy loyalty, his doggy love. She didn’t want anyone to care for her like that, it was an unbearable burden, an imposition.

Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson (via wholesomeobsessive)

He was eating a quesadilla; as an areligious WASP, he had no idea what to do about death. Two thousand years of flaming Viking boats and Celtic rites and Irish wakes and Puritan worship and Unitarian hymns, and still he was left with nothing. He had somehow renounced that inheritance.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)

Imaginary beings, in a real landscape. No wonder he had forgotten the carrot and the stick, and wandered off into the realm of new being and radical difference and all that crap. Trying to be John Boone. Yes, it was true! He was trying to do what John had done. But John had been good at it; Frank had seen him work his magic time after time in the old days, changing everything just by the way he talked. While for Frank the words were like rocks in his mouth. Even now, when it was just what they needed.

Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson (via wholesomeobsessive)

The boat ride is half an hour, during which Less sees leaping dolphins and flying fish skipping like stones over the water, as well as the floating mane of a jellyfish. He recalls an aquarium he visited as a boy, where, after enjoying a sea turtle that swam breaststroke like a dotty old aunt, he encountered a jellyfish, a pink frothing brainless negligeed monster pulsing in the water, and thought with a sob: We are not in this together.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)

Simon watched her surreptitiously, the worry plain on his face, and suddenly she hated his doggy loyalty, his doggy love. She didn’t want anyone to care for her like that, it was an unbearable burden, an imposition.

Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson (via wholesomeobsessive)

‘Hello, Arthur.  I’m here to take care of you.’ Or no, he must be dead.  He is being taken from this drab-green purgatory to a special pit they have waiting for him.  A little cottage above a flaming sea: the Artist Residency in Hell.  The face retains its smile.  And Arthur slowly, sadly, with growing acceptance of the divine comedy of his life, says the name you can by now well guess.

Less by Andrew Sean Greer (via wholesomeobsessive)