They were all so lushly, expensively smothered in syrup, that he knew they certainly could not be cheap, certainly not for him, because the shopkeepers always deceived the sweepers and the poor people, charging them much bigger prices, as if to compensate themselves for the pollution they courted by dealing with outcastes.
The unfairness in this story (particularly this sentence) is overwhelming.
Anand, Mulk Raj. Untouchable. Penguin Classics, pp. 36
Anyone who looked more folk-ish than herself was better than she was in her criteria, therefore it was right that they should be cruel to her at times, just as she was cruel to those more negroid than herself in direct ratio to their negroness.
Hurston, Zora N. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 1937. pp. 144
This is the most self-hating human I’ve ever experienced.
mist of tears
condensing on the flesh below
And her channeled muscles
are cluster grapes of sorrow
purple in the evening sun
nearly ripe for worms.
Toomer, Jean. “Cane”. pp. 14. 1923
Poem form, metaphorical language, “ripe for worms,” what does it mean?
‘Most people don’t associate with anythin’ – their ideas just roll about like so many dry peas on a tray, makin’ a lot of noise an’ goin’ nowhere, but once you begin lettin’ ’em string their peas into a necklace, it’s goin’ to be strong enough to hang you, what?’
Sayers, Dorothy, L. “Whose Body” pp 118. New English Library
Interesting analogy, peas. This is quite a rambly sentence.
Warmish-cool, with a faint taste like the hot July wind in cedar trees smells.
William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying, 10.
Very descriptive simile/imagery [of water].
He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.
Repetition of the word ‘sick’, detachment: describes his heart as “that place.”
James Joyce, A portrait of the Artist as a Young man, ed. Jeri Johnson (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000), 11
His book was a novel; it had the catchpenny cover, and while the romance of life stood neglected at his side he lost himself in that of the circulating library.
Henry James, The Middle Years, The Library of America (Scribner’s Magazine, May 1893), 2
Describes his book strangely (“circulating library”), forgets his life while reading the book.