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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #fiction
I got that experience through dating dozens of men for six years after college, getting an entry level magazine job at 21, working in the fiction department at Good Housekeeping and then working as a fashion editor there as well as writing many articles for the magazine. ↗
What has bothered and angered radical Muslims is that I'm a non-Muslim writing anything at all about Islam. But this is fiction, and I don't think Islam is above criticism or fictionalization any more so than Judaism, Christianity, Mormonism or Hinduism is. ↗
Aref knelt, reached into his pocket and produced an implement made from a small stick which he called his miswak, the use of which he silently illustrated before handing her his spare. He also gave her a clean cloth and a bowl of the freshly collected water. She was directed to soften the dry stick in the water, then copy him by cleaning her mouth, using the miswak like a toothbrush. Gazing at the blood on the cloth, then down at the clothing the native had placed over her legs, soldier Freeman sighed. Aref watched and waited and then, sitting back on his haunches, showed her too that she must rub her feet and calves to stimulate the circulation. She copied him again, sliding her hands across the tops of her ankles and flexing her toes. Glad that she had followed his direction for once, Aref took a more relaxed break, sitting away from her and taking out his carving tools. He whetted his utility knife with the small stone he carried, studying the soldier’s reaction closely from afar. Instantly, he sensed her distrust. She stared at the knife in his hands, as if he might use it against her, but he continued working peacefully, then slid the implements back into his pockets and loaded his miswak onto the belt at his hips, wondering, with the gentle sarcasm his friends had so appreciated in him, how much of his adult life it could conceivably take to prove to this woman he was worthy. ↗
On the surface, I was calm: in secret, without really admitting it, I was waiting for something. Her return? How could I have been waiting for that? We all know that we are material creatures, subject to the laws of physiology and physics, and not even the power of all our feelings combined can defeat those laws. All we can do is detest them. The age-old faith of lovers and poets in the power of love, stronger than death, that finis vitae sed non amoris, is a lie, useless and not even funny. So must one be resigned to being a clock that measures the passage of time, now out of order, now repaired, and whose mechanism generates despair and love as soon as its maker sets it going? Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the air she had breathed? In the name of what? In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yet I lived in expectation. Since she had gone, that was all that remained. I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past. ↗
A man once asked me ... how I managed in my books to write such natural conversation between men when they were by themselves. Was I, by any chance, a member of a large, mixed family with a lot of male friends? I replied that, on the contrary, I was an only child and had practically never seen or spoken to any men of my own age till I was about twenty-five. "Well," said the man, "I shouldn't have expected a woman (meaning me) to have been able to make it so convincing." I replied that I had coped with this difficult problem by making my men talk, as far as possible, like ordinary human beings. This aspect of the matter seemed to surprise the other speaker; he said no more, but took it away to chew it over. One of these days it may quite likely occur to him that women, as well as men, when left to themselves, talk very much like human beings also. ↗
Until recently, I was an ebook sceptic, see; one of those people who harrumphs about the “physical pleasure of turning actual pages” and how ebook will “never replace the real thing”. Then I was given a Kindle as a present. That shut me up. Stock complaints about the inherent pleasure of ye olde format are bandied about whenever some new upstart invention comes along. Each moan is nothing more than a little foetus of nostalgia jerking in your gut. First they said CDs were no match for vinyl. Then they said MP3s were no match for CDs. Now they say streaming music services are no match for MP3s. They’re only happy looking in the rear-view mirror. ↗
