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“Money does not change the sickness, only the symptoms.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“I do love her, and that’s odd because she is everything I detest in anyone else.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“I guess we're all, or most of us, the wards of that nineteenth-century science which denied existence to anything it could not measure or explain. The things we couldn't explain went right on but surely not with our blessing. We did not see what we couldn't explain, and meanwhile a great part of the world was abandoned to children, insane people, fools, and mystics, who were more interested in what is than in why it is. So many old and lovely things are stored in the world's attic, because we don't want them around us and we don't dare throw them out.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“Strength and success - they are above morality, above criticism. It seems, then, that it is not what you do, but how you do it and what you call it. Is there a check in men, deep in them, that stops or punishes? There doesn't seem to be. The only punishment is for failure. In effect no crime is committed unless a criminal is caught.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York.”
William Shakespeare“Are cats strange animals or do they so resemble us that we find them curious as we do monkeys?”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers. Everyone takes what he wants or can from it and thus changes it to his measure. Some pick out parts and reject the rest, some strain the story through their mesh of prejudice, some paint it with their own delight. A story must have some points of contact with the reader to make him feel at home in it. Only then can he accept wonders.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“Coming out of sleep, I had the advantage of two worlds, the layered firmament of dream and the temporal fixtures of the mind awake. I stretched luxuriously—a good and tingling sensation. It's as though the skin has shrunk in the night and one must push it out to daytime size by bulging the muscles, and there's an a itching pleasure in it.”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent“Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?”
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent