You got it! Andrew Murray's Absolute Surrender, now you can repost your quote.
Thanks. Here it is, with some more added that might serve a bit towards identifying the writer's voice.
She did not like me. She disliked me because I was a landscape painter and did not in my pictures portray the privations of the peasants, and that, as she fancied, I was indifferent to what she put such faith in. I remember when I was travelling on the banks of Lake Baikal, I met a Buriat girl on horseback, wearing a shirt and trousers of blue Chinese canvas; I asked her if she would sell me her pipe. While we talked she looked contemptuously at my European face and hat, and in a moment she was bored with talking to me; she shouted to her horse and galloped on. And in just the same way Lida despised me as an alien. She never outwardly expressed her dislike for me, but I felt it, and sitting on the lower step of the terrace, I felt irritated, and said that doctoring peasants when one was not a doctor was deceiving them, and that it was easy to be benevolent when one had six thousand acres.
Meanwhile her sister Misuce had no cares, and spent her life in complete idleness just as I did. When she got up in the morning she immediately took up a book and sat down to read on the terrace in a deep arm-chair, with her feet hardly touching the ground, or hid herself with her book in the lime avenue, or walked out into the fields. She spent the whole day reading, poring greedily over her book, and only from the tired, dazed look in her eyes and the extreme paleness of her face one could divine how this continual reading exhausted her brain. When I arrived she would flush a little, leave her book, and looking into my face with her big eyes, would tell me eagerly of anything that had happened -- for instance, that the chimney had been on fire in the servants' hall, or that one of the men had caught a huge fish in the pond. On ordinary days she usually went about in a light blouse and a dark blue skirt. We went for walks together, picked cherries for making jam, went out in the boat. When she jumped up to reach a cherry or sculled in the boat, her thin, weak arms showed through her transparent sleeves. Or I painted a sketch, and she stood beside me watching rapturously.
Hint: Though he never wrote a novel, the writer penned a number plays and became recognized as a master of the short story. Somewhat different in social service from the detachedly idle narrator of the story from which I quoted, the writer was a physician who treated (reportedly without charge) numerous poor folks, while supporting himself largely from his literary endeavors.
The author typically appears with a goatee in photographs. Here's another quote from his writing:
Vassily Sergeyitch tipped him without a word, got into his carriage and drove off.
"There, he has galloped off for a doctor!" said Semyon, shrinking from the cold. "But looking for a good doctor is like chasing the wind in the fields or catching the devil by the tail, plague take your soul! What a queer chap, Lord forgive me a sinner!"
The Tatar went up to Canny, and, looking at him with hatred and repulsion, shivering, and mixing Tatar words with his broken Russian, said: "He is good . . . good; but you are bad! You are bad! The gentleman is a good soul, excellent, and you are a beast, bad! The gentleman is alive, but you are a dead carcass. . . . God created man to be alive, and to have joy and grief and sorrow; but you want nothing, so you are not alive, you are stone, clay! A stone wants nothing and you want nothing. You are a stone, and God does not love you, but He loves the gentleman!"
The temperature hit ninety degrees the day she arrived. New York was steaming - an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unseasonable hot spell. But she didn’t mind the heat or the littered midway called Times Square. She thought New York was the most exciting city in the world.
‘I’m not especially looking for someone rich. That’s not important.’
Neely sneered. ‘You’ve never been poor.’
‘Neely…let me put it this way. You’re thrilled because you’ve landed Hit the Sky. Suppose after a few weeks of rehearsal someone like Allen came into your life and asked you to marry him and chuck the show before it even opened. Would you?’
‘Would I? But so fast it’d make your head spin. Look, let’s say I have real talent. And let’s say someday I get a chance to prove it. If I work real hard for years, what will I end up with? Money, position and respect. That’s it. That’s all there is. And it could take me years of hard work to get that. Allen is handing you the works on a silver platter.’
Nope, not the right one yet, here's a little more..
"Give me the water, Mary," he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?"
"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes-- unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said.
"WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?"
"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening," I answered.
"Great God!--what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?"
"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy."
"And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I CANNOT see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!"
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.
"Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her."
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder--neck--waist--I was entwined and gathered to him.
"Is it ...? WHAT is it? This is her shape--this is her size--"
"And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again."
-----
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to ....
"Because you are sorry to leave it?"
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to speak.
"I grieve to leave...: I love Thorn...:- I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,--with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death."
"No: you must stay! I swear it--and the oath shall be kept."
"I tell you I must go!" I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?--a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,--as we are!"
"As we are!" ..."so," he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so...!"
"Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man--or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you--to one with whom you have no sympathy--whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you--let me go!"
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Grace Valerie Claire
OK, I'll jump in. What are the best books ever written, other than the Bible? My favorite book for example is An American Tragedy.
GeorgeStGeorge
No, that was actually "Treasure Island," by Robert Louis Stephenson. If you'd like to try, feel free to give a quote from a book, so we can guess the author. I've gotta tell you, though, the pla
WordWolf
Stephen King, The Dark Tower, Volume 1, "The Gunslinger." (For the record, I didn't even find that thing when I moved.)
Cynic
Thanks. Here it is, with some more added that might serve a bit towards identifying the writer's voice.
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Cynic
Hint: Though he never wrote a novel, the writer penned a number plays and became recognized as a master of the short story. Somewhat different in social service from the detachedly idle narrator of the story from which I quoted, the writer was a physician who treated (reportedly without charge) numerous poor folks, while supporting himself largely from his literary endeavors.
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Cynic
The author typically appears with a goatee in photographs. Here's another quote from his writing:
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GeorgeStGeorge
Anton Chekhov?
George
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Cynic
Yesiree.
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GeorgeStGeorge
The temperature hit ninety degrees the day she arrived. New York was steaming - an angry concrete animal caught unawares in an unseasonable hot spell. But she didn’t mind the heat or the littered midway called Times Square. She thought New York was the most exciting city in the world.
George
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Cynic
WAG (wild-arse guess): F. Scott Fitzgerald?
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GeorgeStGeorge
Sorry, not even close. About the only similarity is that this is an American author, as well.
George
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doojable
Is this a "gumshoe" writer? Maybe Dashiell Hammett?
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GeorgeStGeorge
No.
George
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GeorgeStGeorge
Another quote (same author):
‘I’m not especially looking for someone rich. That’s not important.’
Neely sneered. ‘You’ve never been poor.’
‘Neely…let me put it this way. You’re thrilled because you’ve landed Hit the Sky. Suppose after a few weeks of rehearsal someone like Allen came into your life and asked you to marry him and chuck the show before it even opened. Would you?’
‘Would I? But so fast it’d make your head spin. Look, let’s say I have real talent. And let’s say someday I get a chance to prove it. If I work real hard for years, what will I end up with? Money, position and respect. That’s it. That’s all there is. And it could take me years of hard work to get that. Allen is handing you the works on a silver platter.’
George
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now I see
Valley of the Dolls, Jacqueline Susann?
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GeorgeStGeorge
That's it. Take it away!
George
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now I see
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I
stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he
demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes--
unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he
ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was
in the glass," I said.
"WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?"
"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this
evening," I answered.
"Great God!--what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has
seized me?"
"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for
delusion, your health too sound for frenzy."
"And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I CANNOT see,
but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst.
Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot
live!"
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anotherDan
Hienline? Stranger in a Strange Land?
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now I see
Nope.....
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WordWolf
HG Wells?
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now I see
Nope, not the right one yet, here's a little more..
"Give me the water, Mary," he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, still excited.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, is it not?"
"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those sightless eyes-- unavailing and distressing attempt! "Answer me--speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the glass," I said.
"WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?"
"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this evening," I answered.
"Great God!--what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized me?"
"No delusion--no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy."
"And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I CANNOT see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever--whoever you are--be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!"
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.
"Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If so there must be more of her."
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder--neck--waist--I was entwined and gathered to him.
"Is it ...? WHAT is it? This is her shape--this is her size--"
"And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again."
-----
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had never been born, or never come to ....
"Because you are sorry to leave it?"
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last: yes,--and to speak.
"I grieve to leave...: I love Thorn...:- I love it, because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,--momentarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I reverence, with what I delight in,--with an original, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of death."
"No: you must stay! I swear it--and the oath shall be kept."
"I tell you I must go!" I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an automaton?--a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!--I have as much soul as you,--and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh;--it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal,--as we are!"
"As we are!" ..."so," he added, enclosing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so...!"
"Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man--or as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you--to one with whom you have no sympathy--whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am better than you--let me go!"
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bfh
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte?
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now I see
Correct! Your turn!
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bfh
New Author:
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I dont know what them eyes was the windows to and I guess I'd as soon not know.
But there is another view of the world out there and other eyes to see it and that's where this is goin.
It has done brought me to a place in my life I would not of thought I'd of come to. Somewhere out there
is a true and living prophet of destruction and I dont want to confront him. I know he's real. I have seen his work.
I walked in front of those eyes once. I wont do it again.
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doojable
Faulkner?
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bfh
No, not Faulkner.
This is a contemporary (male) author who is still writing and publishing his work.
Here's more:
It's an odd thing when you think about it. The opportunities for abuse are just about everwhere.
There's no requirements in the Texas State Constitution for bein a sheriff. Not a one. There is no such thing as a county law.
You think about a job where you have pretty much the same authority as God and there is no requirements put upon you
and you are charged with preservin nonexistent laws and you tell me if that's peculiar or not. Because I say that it is.
Does it work? Yes. Ninety percent of the time. It takes very little to govern good people. Very little.
And bad people cant be governed at all. Or if they could I never heard of it.
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Cynic
Jim Hightower?
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