Jon (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} oswaldtherabbit) wrote,@ 2006-08-11 11:50:00 |
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The John Cheever Post
Read John Cheever stories. DO IT. He writes the greatest opening paragraphs I've ever read.
"This is being written aboard the S.S. Augustus, three days at sea. My suitcase is full of peanut butter, and I am a fugitive from the suburbs of all large cities."
"The Crutchmans were so very, very happy and so temperate in all their habits and so pleased with everything that came their way that one was bound to suspect a worm in their rosy apple and that the extrordinary rosiness of the fruit was only meant to conceal the gravity and depth of the infection."
"The Wrysons wanted things in the suburb of Shady Hill to remain exactly as they were. Their dread of change--of irregularity of any sort--was acute, and when the Larkin estate was sold for an old people's rest home, the Wrysons went to the Village Council meeting and demanded to know what sort of old people these old people were going to be."
"Our ideals of castles, formed in childhood, are inflexible, and why try to reform them? Why point out that in a real castle thistles grow in the courtyard, and the threshold of the ruined throne room is guarded by a nest of green adders?"
"Oh I hate small men and I will write about them no more but in passing I would like to say that's what my brother Richard is: small."
Read John Cheever stories. DO IT. He writes the greatest opening paragraphs I've ever read.
"This is being written aboard the S.S. Augustus, three days at sea. My suitcase is full of peanut butter, and I am a fugitive from the suburbs of all large cities."
"The Crutchmans were so very, very happy and so temperate in all their habits and so pleased with everything that came their way that one was bound to suspect a worm in their rosy apple and that the extrordinary rosiness of the fruit was only meant to conceal the gravity and depth of the infection."
"The Wrysons wanted things in the suburb of Shady Hill to remain exactly as they were. Their dread of change--of irregularity of any sort--was acute, and when the Larkin estate was sold for an old people's rest home, the Wrysons went to the Village Council meeting and demanded to know what sort of old people these old people were going to be."
"Our ideals of castles, formed in childhood, are inflexible, and why try to reform them? Why point out that in a real castle thistles grow in the courtyard, and the threshold of the ruined throne room is guarded by a nest of green adders?"
"Oh I hate small men and I will write about them no more but in passing I would like to say that's what my brother Richard is: small."
