“Cărți sau țigări” e amăruie, făcută să fie citită pe nerăsuflate. E tristă, chiar și atunci când umorul fin și ascuțit al lui Orwell își face treaba. Mi s-a părut că miroase a vechi, a ponosit cartea asta. De parcă personajele și întâmplările ei ar fi stat prea mult într-un șifonier dintr-o casă de bătrâni.
Sentimental you say? Anti-social? Oughtn’t to prefer trees to men? I say it depends what trees and what men.
As a rule, I don’t care a damn about my age. Why should I? I’m fat, but I’m strong and healthy. I can do everything I want to do. A rose smells the same to me now as it did when I was twenty. Ah, but do I smell the same to the rose?
When a woman’s bumped off, her husband is always the first suspect – which gives you a little sideglimpse of what people really thing about marriage.
That was what the army did to you. It turned you into an imitation gentleman and gave you a fixed idea that there’s always be a bit of money coming from somewhere.
Fishing is the opposite of war.
People took politics seriously in those days. They used to begin storing up rotten eggs weeks before an election.
How I could smell it! You know the smell churches have, a peculiar, dank, dusty, decaying sweetish sort of smell. There’s a touch of candle grease in it, and perhaps a whiff o incense and a suspicion of mice and on Sunday mornings it’s a bit overlaid by yellow soap and serge dresses, but predominantly it’s that sweet dusty musty smell that’s like the smell of death and life mixed up together. It’s powdered corpses, really.
I felt in a kind of prophetic mood, the mood in which you foresee the end of the world and get a certain kick out of it.
That’s the way we’re going nowadays. Everything slick and streamlined, everything made out of something else.