Цитаты — стр. 5

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Don't forget the real business of the War is buying and selling. The murdering and the violence are self-policing, and can be entrusted to non-professionals. The mass nature of wartime death is useful in many ways. It serves as spectacle, as diversion from the real movements of the War. It… Развернуть 

Without the War what could he have hoped for? But to be part of this adventure . . . If you cannot sing Siegfried at least you can carry a spear.

Tonight he feels the potency of every word: words are only an eye-twitch away from the things they stand for.

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Only one fight, one victory, one loss. And only one president, and one assassin, and one election. True. One of each of everything. You had thought of solipsism, and imagined the structure to be populated—on your level—by only, terribly, one. No count on any other levels. But it proves to be not… Развернуть 

They sit still as the painted dogs now, silent, oddly unable to touch. Death has come in the pantry door: stands watching them, iron and patient, with a look that says try to tickle me.

"Then he has a confederate. Somehow—hypnosis, drugs, I don't know—they're getting to his man and tranquilizing him. For God's sake, next you'll be consulting horoscopes."
"Hitler does."

"What's the most frequent word?" asks Jessica. "Your number one."
"The same as it's always been at these affairs," replies the statistician, as if everyone knew: "death."

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"It's control. All these things arise from one difficulty: control. For the first time it was inside, do you see. The control is put inside. No more need to suffer passively under 'outside forces'—to veer into any wind. As if...
"A market needed no longer be run by the Invisible Hand, but now… Развернуть 

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what stayed at home in Berkshire went into timberland whose diminishing green reaches were converted acres at a clip into paper—toilet paper, banknote stock, newsprint—a medium or ground for shit, money, and the Word.
They were not aristocrats, no Slothrop ever made it into the Social Register or… Развернуть 

It was one of those great iron afternoons in London: the yellow sun being teased apart by a thousand chimneys breathing, fawning upward without shame. This smoke is more than the day's breath, more than dark strength—it is an imperial presence that lives and moves.

. Slothrop's Progress: London the secular city instructs him: turn any corner and he can find himself inside a parable.

. Ruins he goes daily to look in are each a sermon on vanity. That he finds, as weeks wear on, no least fragment of any rocket, preaches how indivisible is the act of death . . .

What a damn fool thing. He hangs at the bottom of his blood's avalanche, 300 years of western swamp-Yankees, and can't manage but some nervous truce with their Providence.

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he'd detach its pencil-smeared buck slip, go draw the same aging Humber from the motor pool, and make his rounds, a Saint George after the fact, going out to poke about for droppings of the Beast, fragments of German hardware that wouldn't exist, writing empty summaries into his… Развернуть 

Ha! Neither of them returning Slothrop's amiable nod. Tough shit, fellas. But shrewd Tyrone hangs around, distributing Lucky Strikes, long enough to find at least what's up with this Unlucky Strike, here.

It is the dark, hard, tobacco-starved, headachy, sour-stomach middle of the day, a million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death ...

, to observe him in his trances across the blue baize fields and the terrible paper gaming, his eyes rolled back into his head reading old, glyptic old graffiti on his own sockets. . . .

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Well, hrrump, heh, heh, here comes Pirate's Condition creeping over him again, when he's least expecting it as usual—might as well mention here that much of what the dossiers call Pirate Prentice is a strange talent for—well, for getting inside the fantasies of others: being able, actually, to… Развернуть 

Solitude, even among the meshes of this war, can when it wishes so take him by the blind gut and touch, as now, possessively.

There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and be quiet. Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the light come before or after?

- Как-то на днях мы с сыночком Идиотом - не, Эллиотом - печеньице пекли. Послать это печеньице нашим мальчишечкам за море. А когда мальчишечки получат это наше печеньице, они тоже испекут печеньице и пошлют нам. И вот так у всех будет печеньице!

Даже приговоренный к смерти не может не проявить известного интереса к тысячам квадратных метров драгоценностей.

«Письма из тюрьмы» — так они теперь называются; эта книга переиздавалась более десяти раз. Чушь! Ее и до сих пор уверяют, что письма эти «исполнены духовной силы» — что, на самом деле, свидетельствует о том, что она без зазрения совести лгала себе самой, когда их писала, лишь бы не пасть духом!