“An incomplete list:No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by.No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take pictures of concert states. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars.No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one's hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite.No more flight. No more towns glimpsed from the sky through airplane windows, points of glimmering light; no more looking down from thirty thousand feet and imagining the lives lit up by those lights at that moment. No more airplanes, no more requests to put your tray table in its upright and locked position – but no, this wasn't true, there were still airplanes here and there. They stood dormant on runways and in hangars. They collected snow on their wings. In the cold months, they were ideal for food storage. In summer the ones near orchards were filled with trays of fruit that dehydrated in the heat. Teenagers snuck into them to have sex. Rust blossomed and streaked.No more countries, all borders unmanned. No more fire departments, no more police. No more road maintenance or garbage pickup. No more spacecraft rising up from Cape Canaveral, from the Baikonur Cosmodrome, from Vandenburg, Plesetsk, Tanegashima, burning paths through the atmosphere into space. No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status updates with heart icons whole or broken, plans to meet up later, pleas, complaints, desires, pictures of babies dressed as bears or peppers for Halloween. No more reading and commenting on the lives of others, and in so doing, feeling slightly less alone in the room. No more avatars.”
―
Emily St. John Mandel,
Station Eleven
“Not really. But I'm a huge fan of your ass. I could write a song about your ass. ""You've never even seen it.""Feeling is believing.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“And yes, it is you. It’s always been you.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Say that what happened isn’t it for us.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Girls are cruelest to themselves.Someone like Emily Brontë,who remained a girl all her life despite her body as a woman,had cruelty drifted up in all the cracks of her like spring snow.” ― Anne Carson, Glass, Irony and God
“The Night Is Darkening Round MThe night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go.” ― Emily Brontë
“After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round – Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –” ― Emily Dickenson, Selected Poems
“Google is your friend” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I've always wanted you. It's just took me awhile to tell the shit holding me back to fuck off” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I know you're angry and I know that it'll take work, but I just want you to try. To give getting through my fuck-ups together a chance. I need to know that you can give a shit about me again.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I love you Willow, but I can live without you. I just refuse to.” ― Emily Snow, Tidal
“Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;Lengthen night and shorten day;Every leaf speaks bliss to meFluttering from the autumn tree.I shall smile when wreaths of snowBlossom where the rose should grow;I shall sing when night’s decayUshers in a drearier day.” ― Emily Brontë, Bronte: Poems
“To find out what a story's really about,' the Librarian said, 'you don't ask the writer. You ask the reader.” ― Emily Winfield Martin, Snow & Rose
“This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –” ― Emily Dickinson, Selected Poems
“But you're right-you are an idiot if you thought I ever stopped loving you . . . Mr. Wolfe” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Clark had always been fond of beautiful objects, and in his present state of mind, all objects were beautiful. He stood by the case and found himself moved by every object he saw there, by the human enterprise each object had required. Consider the snow globe. Consider the mind that invented those miniature storms, the factory worker who turned sheets of plastic into white flakes of snow, the hand that drew the plan for the miniature Severn City with its church steeple and city hall, the as**sembly-line worker who watched the globe glide past on a conveyer belt somewhere in China. Consider the white gloves on the hands of the woman who inserted the snow globes into boxes, to be packed into larger boxes, crates, shipping containers. Consider the card games played belowdecks in the evenings on the ship carrying the containers across the ocean, a hand stubbing out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, a haze of blue smoke in dim light, the cadences of a half dozen languages united by common profanities, the sailors’ dreams of land and women, these men for whom the ocean was a gray-line horizon to be traversed in ships the size of overturned skyscrapers. Consider the signature on the shipping manifest when the ship reached port, a signature unlike any other on earth, the coffee cup in the hand of the driver delivering boxes to the distribution center, the secret hopes of the UPS man carrying boxes of snow globes from there to the Severn City Airport. Clark shook the globe and held it up to the light. When he looked through it, the planes were warped and caught in whirling snow.” ― Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven
“You. Naked. In the shower. Now.""You. Caveman. Go screw yourself.” ― Emily Snow, Savor You
“What you did hurt, Lucas. You wanted me to submit to you just so you could tell me to screw off." I whisper harshly. "And now you want me.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a piece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly, his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion of tears. 'Come in! come in!' he sobbed. 'Cathy, do come. Oh, do - ONCE more! Oh! my heart's darling! hear me THIS time, Catherine, at last!' The spectre showed a spectre's ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blowing out the light.” ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
“Not really. But I'm a huge fan of your ass. I could write a song about your ass. ""You've never even seen it.""Feeling is believing.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“And yes, it is you. It’s always been you.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Say that what happened isn’t it for us.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Girls are cruelest to themselves.Someone like Emily Brontë,who remained a girl all her life despite her body as a woman,had cruelty drifted up in all the cracks of her like spring snow.” ― Anne Carson, Glass, Irony and God
“The Night Is Darkening Round MThe night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go.” ― Emily Brontë
“After great pain, a formal feeling comes – The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs – The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round – Of Ground, or Air, or Ought – A Wooden way Regardless grown, A Quartz contentment, like a stone – This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –” ― Emily Dickenson, Selected Poems
“Google is your friend” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I've always wanted you. It's just took me awhile to tell the shit holding me back to fuck off” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I know you're angry and I know that it'll take work, but I just want you to try. To give getting through my fuck-ups together a chance. I need to know that you can give a shit about me again.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I love you Willow, but I can live without you. I just refuse to.” ― Emily Snow, Tidal
“Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;Lengthen night and shorten day;Every leaf speaks bliss to meFluttering from the autumn tree.I shall smile when wreaths of snowBlossom where the rose should grow;I shall sing when night’s decayUshers in a drearier day.” ― Emily Brontë, Bronte: Poems
“To find out what a story's really about,' the Librarian said, 'you don't ask the writer. You ask the reader.” ― Emily Winfield Martin, Snow & Rose
“This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –” ― Emily Dickinson, Selected Poems
“But you're right-you are an idiot if you thought I ever stopped loving you . . . Mr. Wolfe” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“Clark had always been fond of beautiful objects, and in his present state of mind, all objects were beautiful. He stood by the case and found himself moved by every object he saw there, by the human enterprise each object had required. Consider the snow globe. Consider the mind that invented those miniature storms, the factory worker who turned sheets of plastic into white flakes of snow, the hand that drew the plan for the miniature Severn City with its church steeple and city hall, the as**sembly-line worker who watched the globe glide past on a conveyer belt somewhere in China. Consider the white gloves on the hands of the woman who inserted the snow globes into boxes, to be packed into larger boxes, crates, shipping containers. Consider the card games played belowdecks in the evenings on the ship carrying the containers across the ocean, a hand stubbing out a cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, a haze of blue smoke in dim light, the cadences of a half dozen languages united by common profanities, the sailors’ dreams of land and women, these men for whom the ocean was a gray-line horizon to be traversed in ships the size of overturned skyscrapers. Consider the signature on the shipping manifest when the ship reached port, a signature unlike any other on earth, the coffee cup in the hand of the driver delivering boxes to the distribution center, the secret hopes of the UPS man carrying boxes of snow globes from there to the Severn City Airport. Clark shook the globe and held it up to the light. When he looked through it, the planes were warped and caught in whirling snow.” ― Emily St. John Mandel, Station Eleven
“You. Naked. In the shower. Now.""You. Caveman. Go screw yourself.” ― Emily Snow, Savor You
“What you did hurt, Lucas. You wanted me to submit to you just so you could tell me to screw off." I whisper harshly. "And now you want me.” ― Emily Snow, Devoured
“I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a piece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly, his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion of tears. 'Come in! come in!' he sobbed. 'Cathy, do come. Oh, do - ONCE more! Oh! my heart's darling! hear me THIS time, Catherine, at last!' The spectre showed a spectre's ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my station, and blowing out the light.” ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
