Bookmarker is a personal project by @dellsystem to help with retaining reading material. Source on GitHub.

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You added a note
2 years, 9 months ago

you think I’m a prostitute anyway

“I called him yesterday. Then I made my appointment for the haircut. This haircut you don’t like. Does that surprise you? Did you think you’d have to kick me out? All right.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe I’ll become a prostitute. Don’t worry. I’m not trying to make you feel sorry. You think I’m a…

—p.302 The Deer Park by Norman Mailer
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2 years, 9 months ago

he had never felt so small

Eitel learned. Everything was all right until they tried to make love again. Then, Elena was far away, and it was no better for him. He hated her. It was impossible not to remember how she had given herself to the others, and whatever expression might cross her face became deformed to him and infec…

—p.296 by Norman Mailer
You added a note
2 years, 9 months ago

the moral bravery of a victor

“All right, Charley,” Elena said, sitting up in bed, her face filling with hard wisdom and hatred of him, until she was beautiful to his eyes, and more than a little frightening. “Now, you listen to me,” she said. “You were the one who arranged everything tonight, and yet you call me a pig. If it h…

—p.295 by Norman Mailer
You added a note
2 years, 9 months ago

like a saint counting his sores

I had found the orphanage again and I was home; I might just as well never have left home. After work, after my meal in the expensive drugstore, I would go back to my furnished room and I would bathe—what luxuries have the poor—and lie naked and powdered on my bed, covered with heat rash, reading t…

—p.289 by Norman Mailer
You added a note
2 years, 9 months ago

have to eat on so many plates?

I could have had other jobs. I could have been a male car-hop as Munshin had warned, or a parking-lot attendant, or I could have gotten work of some sort in one hotel or another, but I chose to wash dishes as though my eight-hour stint in the steam and the grease and the heat, with my fingers burne…

—p.287 by Norman Mailer