O, you know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches my lips it turns to water.
We were language’s magpies by nature, stealing whatever sounded bright and shiny.
…from Salman Rushdie‘s imperfectly perfect novel, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which I hesitantly allow to be considered the greatest “music novel” ever, instead of Coming Through Slaughter, if only because Vina Apsara is the sexiest female character in literary history, which makes perfect logical sense thank you very much shut up.
He knew what he knew: that the real world was full of magic, so magical worlds could easily be real.
Whenever I’m asked to defend my opinion that the young adult publishing industry is largely a crime against humanity, my typical response is the name of this book, then Luka and the Fire of Life, after which I drop the mic and walk off with airborne middle fingers.
“Are you familiar,” he said finally, “with the Bang?”
“The Big Bang?” Luka asked. “Or some other Bang I don’t know about?”
“There was only one Bang,” said Nobodaddy, “so the adjective Big is redundant and meaningless. The Bang would only be Big if there was at least one other Little or Medium-Sized or even Bigger Bang to compare it with, and to differentiate it from.”
Say what you will about the man, but there are miracles in life less impressive than his eyebrows.