Bookish selfie…

A snapshot of my recent reading in quotes…

Hear me, then, all of you: the padri preach that their Yezu rose to Heaven and because he rose to Heaven, he shall return. They say that the sky will then turn red, that the lightning will spare no one, the mountains will crumble, deafening trumpets will sound in the clouds as with the soldiers on the Belgians’ holiday. The padri say all this, but I said to Akayezu: Who will you believe? What the padri say, or what your mother relates in the evening after dark? And you women, who should you believe: what they taught you in Catechism or what the spirit of Kibogo has revealed to me? For this I tell you: Kibogo has risen to Heaven, and he shall return. He has risen to Heaven from our mountain, and he shall return on our mountain. And where the lightning struck him to carry him beyond the clouds, there the lightning shall set him down. All the thunder’s drums shall acclaim Kibogo and Kibogo shall proclaim, ‘I am your mwami, the one who has come to save Rwanda,’ and all the drums shall rumble without being beaten and all the people shall clap their hands together: ‘Ganza umwami! Ganza Kibogo! Long rule the king! Long rule Kibogo!”

~ Kibogo by Scholastique Mukasonga

* * * * *

The 1983 election had been a watershed for Labour. With the SDP-Liberal alliance splitting the progressive vote, not only had the Conservatives increased their majority to 144 seats, despite a slight decrease in their popular share, but Labour had come within an inch of falling to third place in votes cast. Michael Foot’s parliamentary party was down to 209, the lowest number of Labour MPs since 1935. The campaign, as I remarked at the time, had started badly – and then fallen away. The manifesto – a prolix 22,000-word document described by Gerald Kaufman as ‘the longest suicide note in history’ – was read only to seek out the nuggets of political disaster. The manifesto slogan ‘Think Positively’ elicited a negative response. The message was reminiscent of the Latin American finance minister who is said to have told his Cabinet that ‘past policies have brought us to the edge of the abyss, and now it is time for a bold step forward’.

~ My Life, Our Times by Gordon Brown

* * * * *

….“He has always struck me as rather a stupid man,” said Miss Marple. “The kind of man who gets the wrong idea into his head and is obstinate about it. Do you remember Joe Bucknell who used to keep the Blue Boar? Such a to-do about his daughter carrying on with young Bailey. And all the time it was that minx of a wife of his.”
….She was looking full at Griselda as she spoke, and I suddenly felt a wild surge of anger. ….“Don’t you think, Miss Marple,” I said, “that we’re all inclined to let our tongues run away with us too much. Charity thinketh no evil, you know. Inestimable harm may be done by foolish wagging of tongues in ill-natured gossip.”
….“Dear Vicar,” said Miss Marple, “You are so unworldly. I’m afraid that observing human nature for as long as I have done, one gets not to expect very much from it. I dare say idle tittle-tattle is very wrong and unkind, but it is so often true, isn’t it?”
….That last Parthian shot went home.

~ The Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie

* * * * *

….Inside the palanquin it is hot and close, the smells of food and stale sweat and rosewater mingling with another smell, sharp and bitter. Once again Amrita’s hand reaches out for the little sandalwood box of pills. She watches the hand as she would a snake sliding across a flagstone floor, with detachment and an edge of revulsion. Yes, it is her hand, but only for now, only for a while. Amrita knows that she is not her body. This crab-like object, fiddling with box and key and pellets of sticky black resin, belongs to her only as does a shawl or a piece of jewellery.
….A bump. They have stopped. Outside there are voices. Amrita rejoices. At nineteen years old, this will be her last journey, and any delay is cause for celebration. She swallows another opium pellet, tasting the bitter resin on her tongue.

~ The Impressionist by Hari Kunzru

* * * * *

So… are you tempted?