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With any other man I should have flown outright into a dreadful passion, scorned all further words, and thrust him ignominiously from my presence. But there was something about Bartleby that not only strangely disarmed me, but in a wonderful manner touched and disconcerted me.
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This is from my narration for Velox Books of Don't Trust Yourself by Chris Carlton. When the brightness no longer felt like tiny knives, he took his hand away and looked around. He lay in a white-covered bed, above him a triangular frame. In the back of his left hand was a cannula, which was connected by a tube to an IV bag on a drip stand. The wall clock indicated 7.25.
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This is from Bartleby the Scrivener by Herman Melville Bartleby, quick! I am waiting. I hear a slow scrape of his chair-legs on the uncarpeted floor, and soon he appeared standing at the entrance of his hermitage. What is wanted? said he mildly. The copies, the copies! said I hurriedly. We are going to examine them, there! and I held toward him the fourth quadruplicate. I would prefer not to, he said, and gently disappeared behind the screen.
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This is from my narration for Velox books of Don't Trust Yourself by Chris Carlden. What's wrong? he said. I'm just happy. You recognize me. You remember my name. Vincent's forehead wrinkled as his eyebrows climbed. Why shouldn't I know who you are? I feel okay. I just have no idea how I got here. Why am I in a hospital?
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This is from my narration for Velox Books of Don't Trust Yourself by Chris Carlden. His hands came up, covered with leather gloves and clasping the handle of a long knife. The point was aimed at Tony's chest. For a fraction of a moment, the stranger paused in his movement, confusion on his features. Tony used the moment to roll off the couch. He banged painfully on the floor, bashing the coffee table aside and picked himself up as fast as he could. He just wanted to get away from the guy with the knife. Everything in him was programmed to escape.
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This is Aunt Sally from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Two years ago last Christmas, your Uncle Silas was coming up from New Orleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder head and crippled a man, and I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your Uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now. He did die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification. That was it. He turned blue all over and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at.
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This is from The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins The quiet twilight was still trembling on the topmost ridges of the heath, and the view of London below me had sunk into a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy night, when I stood before the gate of my mother's cottage. I had hardly rung the bell before the house door was opened violently. My worthy Italian friend, Professor Pesca, appeared in the servant's place, and darted out joyously to receive me with a shrill foreign parody of an English cheer.
Script:
This is Aunt Sally from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Two years ago last Christmas, your Uncle Silas was coming up from New Orleans on the old Lally Rook, and she blowed out a cylinder head and crippled a man, and I think he died afterwards. He was a Baptist. Your Uncle Silas knowed a family in Baton Rouge that knowed his people very well. Yes, I remember now. He did die. Mortification set in, and they had to amputate him. But it didn't save him. Yes, it was mortification. That was it. He turned blue all over and died in the hope of a glorious resurrection. They say he was a sight to look at.
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This is from As a Man Thinketh by James Allen. Of all the beautiful truths pertaining to the soul which have been restored and brought to light in this age, none is more gladdening or fruitful of divine promise and confidence than this, that man is the master of thought, the moulder of character, and the maker and shaper of condition, environment, and destiny.
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This is from Confessions of a Young Man by George Moore. But when we returned home, I took the first opportunity of stealing the novel in question. I read it eagerly, passionately, vehemently. I read its successor and its successor. I read until I came to a book called The Doctor's Wife, a lady who loved Shelley and Byron. There was magic, there was revelation in the name, and Shelley became my soul's divinity. Why did I love Shelley? Why was I not attracted to Byron?
