Sunday, June 23, 2013

"She tried to reach out, to whatever coded tenacity of protein might improbably have held on six feet below, still resisting decay - any stubborn quiescence perhaps gathering itself for some last burst, some last scramble up through earth, just-glimmering, holding together with its final strength a transient, winged shape, needing to settle at once in the warm host, or dissipate forever into the dark."

The Crying of Lot 49 / Thomas Pynchon

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