"Fine, call it Proggsville, or wait, Progress Falls, that's it. That's our title: 'Miracle At Progress Falls.' The ghost shows him what Progress Falls would be like if he throws himself off that bridge. How many people depend on him, and love him, his girl, his friends..."
Odets didn't interrupt. He was interested despite himself. Capra's brand of integrity was not the worst in Hollywood, even though Odets had already noted a few dodges and fades in the director's teary encomium - Dawson had been over six feet, not a little man at all, and Capra had shown no scruples about altering Dawson's great screenplay "Meet Joe K." almost beyond recognition, copping out of the suicide ending at the last moment. The result had been a travesty, an impossibly uplifting ending to a tragic, bitter story.
Kafka Americana (1999), by Jonathan Lethem & Carter Scholz
The Castle (1926), by Franz Kafka
The Giver looked away, as if he could not bear to see what he had done to Jonas. "Forgive me," he said.
Jonas did not want to go back. He didn't want the memories, didn't want the honor, didn't want the wisdom, didn't want the pain. He wanted his childhood again, his scraped knees and ball games. He sat in his dwelling alone, watching through the window, seeing children at play, citizens bicycling home from uneventful days at work, ordinary lives free of anguish because they had been selected, as others before him had, to bear their burden.
But the choice was not his. He returned each day to the Annex room.
The Giver (1993), by Lois Lowry
He (1974), by Robert A. Johnson
Outside, it was stormy. Wind shook the trees and blew a sheet of heavy rain against the building. The hard ground below had turned to mud overnight, and it was clear that Kira would not go to the dyer's cott today. Just as well, she thought; there was much work to do on the robe, and autumn-start, the time of the Gathering, was approaching. Recently Jamison had been stopping by sometimes twice a day to see the progress she had made. He seemed pleased by her work.
Gathering Blue (2000), by Lois Lowry
And finally: We've done it long enough.
Now and then a lone citizen, untouched by trade, would go to the platform and try to speak. They spoke of the history of Village, how each of them there had fled poverty and cruelty and been welcomed at this new place that had taken them in.
The blind man spoke eloquently of the day he had been brought here half dead and been tended for months by the people of Village until, though he was still without sight, it had become his true home. Matty had been wondering whether he, too, would go up and speak. He wanted to, for surely Village had also become his true home, and saved him, but felt a little shy.
Messenger (2004), by Lois Lowry
While everyone of the manor born was indulging in various whims and fancies, there were those who surrounded themselves with their favorite furred and feathered friends. Morgan had his cows, Mrs. Paul Prybal had her rats and mice, Mona Williams her peacocks strutting around the indoor swimming pool, and Frick his cages full of zoo animals. Mrs. William Holloway, I am told, drove her husband to leave for a tropical island when she filled one of the main rooms in the house with chimpanzees who leaped about, and threw bananas from tree stumps set into the floor of what had originally been a sitting room.
The Mansions of Long Island's Gold Coast (1987), by M. Randall
A milky mist had rolled in off the ocean, amplifying sounds, including the far-off ringing of a buoy. Through the parted curtains next to his bed Miles squinted into the mist until he was certain that he'd imagined the sound, but then there came another, a footfall on the gravel path, and then the mist gathered itself around a dark shape coming toward him, and finally the mist became his mother, making her way along the grassy edge of the dirt path, carrying her shoes in one hand and concentrating on her footing. The sight so startled Miles that before he could reconcile seeing his mother outside with his belief that she was asleep in the next bedroom, she looked up and stared right at him, and only then did he let the curtains fall back into place.
Empire Falls (2000), by Richard Russo
Blue Sky Dream (1996), by David Beers
They each took a pill.
Claire knew about the pills. The pill-taking in the community began at about Twelve - or for some children, earlier. Parents observed their children and decided when the time had come. She herself had not been deemed ready for the pills before her Ceremony of Twelve. It hadn't mattered to her. Those of her friends who took them found it a nuisance. But when she was selected Birthmother at the Ceremony, part of her list of instructions had specified: No pills.
Son (2012), by Lois Lowry
Criticism taught us to love Rouch and Eisenstein at the same time. To criticism we owe not excluding one aspect of the cinema in the name of another aspect of the cinema. We owe it also the possibility of making films with more distance and of knowing that if such and such a thing has already been done it is useless doing it again. A young writer writing today knows that Moliere and Shakespeare exist. We are the first cineastes to know that Griffith exists.
"Interview with Jean-Luc Godard" included in Interviews with Film Directors (collected 1967), edited by Andrew Sarris
Soon people will stop looking to their local mall - like teens already have - and go instead to their computer or home entertainment system to find a new movie or television series they've just heard about. With fewer movies, the best of these will eventually make it to the mall too.
Sleepless in Hollywood (2013), by Lynda Obst
Comrades! (2007), by Robert Service
Peter returned, first sniffing and then licking her nose.
"Christ, don't do that, your breath stinks!"
Peter wagged his tail. Anderson sat up. She rubbed her left cheek and saw blood on her palm and fingers. She grunted.
"Nice going," she said, and looked to see what she had tripped over - a fallen piece of tree, most likely, or a rock poking out of the ground. Lots of rock in Maine.
What she saw was a gleam of metal.
The Tommyknockers (1987), by Stephen King
At least it was more comfortable when the unit moved to Spain where they shot the interiors, the attack on the railway and also recreated the port of Aqaba. O'Toole and Sharif became good pals and indulged in some dedicated partying. O'Toole had been chosen by Lean despite worries about his drinking. He was quite someone to socialize with, the sort of chap who would consume three bottles of wine in order to sleep but be fine for work in the morning. Often Peter and Omar were accompanied by comely model April Ashley. She slept chastely with Peter O'Toole but went all the way with Sharif, only then telling him about her sex-change operation.
That's Hollywood (1990), by Peter Van Gelder
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), by James Joyce
Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried.
"The Dead", from Dubliners (1914), by James Joyce
B. They have told their stories and they made their films in a good, effective way. That is a duty: effectiveness in telling a story.
S. Yes, that's a very good minimum, but it's only a minimum.
B. But it's difficult.
S. Are there any young film-makers that you particularly like? I hope you don't like Godard?
B. No, no, no.
Ingmar Bergman directs (1972), by John Simon
I turned my head and looked for the pink-headed bug. He had tried two corners of the room now and was moving off disconsolately toward a third. I went over and picked him up in my handkerchief and carried him back to the desk.
"Look," I said. "This room is eighteen floors above ground. And this little bug climbs all the way up here just to make a friend. Me. My luck piece." I folded the bug carefully into the soft part of the handkerchief and tucked the handkerchief into my pocket. Randall was pie-eyed. His mouth moved, but nothing came out of it.
Farewell, My Lovely (1940), included in Stories & Early Novels by Raymond Chandler (I read the others in 2012)
From Revolution to Ethics (2007), by Julian Bourg
Why but to keep ye low and ignorant,
His worshippers? He knows that in the day
Ye eat thereof your eyes, that seem so clear
Yet are but dim, shall perfectly be then
Opened and cleared and ye shall be as gods
Knowing both good and evil as they know.
That ye should be as gods since I as Man,
Internal Man, is but proportion meet:
I of brute human, ye of human gods.
So ye shall die perhaps by putting off
Human to put on gods: death to be wished,
Though threatened, which no worse than this can bring!
And what are gods that Man may not become
As they, participating godlike food?
Paradise Lost (1667), by John Milton
They, looking back, all th'eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand. The gate
With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.
Some natural tears they dropped but wiped them soon.
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow
Through Eden took their solitary way.