Exerpts – Nightwoods

“What good does the world do you?  That was the question that Luce had asked herself for three years, and the answer she had arrived at was simple.  A distressingly large portion of the world doesn’t do you any good whatsoever.  In fact, it does you bad.  Casts static between your ears, drowns out who you truly are.”  p.24

“…the week before Labor Day became its own tiny season of gloom, like a hundred Sunday nights crowded together.”  p.88

“Daylight blared gritty through the opened door and cast a vampire-killing trapezoid onto the nineteenth-century wood floor, the splintery puncheons hip-wide and wrist-thick, cut from trees nearly two hundred years ago and made to last.  Still bearing adze marks from bearded pioneer ancetors.  The festive stale odors of spilled drinks and tobacco smoke soaked so deep into the thick boards that some archaeologist with sharp instruments could scrape down the layersof wood and identify McCallum’s Scotch spilled by some horseback trader in the days of the Cherokee Nation.  Might as well put up a sign: serving high times for two centuries.  p.99

“Across the lake, mounds of pale grey and silver clouds rose in convincing mountain shapes so high into the sky that Stubblefield became confused about what was heaven and what was landscape.  Have to be in Tibet to validate some of those upper peaks.”  p.100

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