Waiting for Sunrise - William Boyd (1)

I. A Young, Almost Conventionally Handsome Man

It is a clear and dazzling summer's day in Vienna. You are standing in a skewed pentangle of lemony sunshine at the sharp corner of Augustiner Strasse and Augustinerbastei, across from the opera house, indolently watching the world pass by you, waiting for someone or something to catch and hold your attention, to generate a tremor of interest. There's a curious frisson in the city's atmosphere today, almost spring-like, though spring is long gone, but you recognize that slight vernal restlessness in the people going by, that stirring of potential in the air, that possibility of audacity - though what audacities they might be, here in Vienna, who can say? Still, your eyes are open, you are unusually poised, ready for anything - any crumb, any flung coin - that the world might casually toss your way.
     And then you see - to your right - a young man striding out of the Hofgarten park. He is in his late twenties, almost handsome in a conventional way, buy your eye is drawn to him because he is hatless, an anomaly in this busy crowed of Viennese folk, all hatted, men and women. And, as this young almost conventionally handsome man walks purposefully past you, you note his fine brown, brezze-brown hair, his pale gray suite and his highly polished oxblood shoes. He's of medium height but broad-shouldered with something of a sportsman's build and balance, you register, as he goes by, a couple of paces from you. He's clean-shaven - also unusual in this place, the city of facial hair - and you observe that his coat is well tailored, cut tight at the waist. Folds of an ice-blue silk handkerchief spill easily from his breast pocket. There is something fastidious and deliberate about the way he dresses himself - just as he's almost conventionally handsome, so is he also almost a dandy. You decide to follow him for a minute or so, vaguely intrigued and having nothing better to do.
     At the entry to Michaeler Platz he stops abruptly, pauses, stares at something stuck to hoarding and then continues on his way, briskly, as if he's running slightly late for an appointment. You follow him around the square and into Herrengasse - the slanting sunrays picking out the details on the grand, solid buildings, casting shape, dark shadows on the caryatids and the friezes, the pediments and the cornices, the balusters and the architraves. He stops at the kiosk selling foreign newspapers and magazines. He chooses The Graphic and pays for it, unfolding and opening it yo glace the headlines. 
Ah, he's English - how uninteresting - your curiosity is waning. You turn round and wander back towards the pentangular patch of sunlight you abandoned on the corner, hoping some more stimulating possibilities will come your way, leaving the young Englishman to stride on to whomever he was so intently heading...

----
This is the first page of this book and I find to be a great beginning to something. I can clearly see this young almost conventionally handsome man walking down the streets in Vienna.

Skippy Dies - Paul Murray (1)

'What I don't understand,' Geoff says, 'is why did the first fish, like the one who started land animals, suddenly decided one day to just leave the sea? Like, to leave everything he knew, to go flipping around on a land where no one had ever evolved yet for him to talk to?' He shakes his head, 'He was a brave fish, definitely, and we owe him a lot, for staring  life on land and everything? But I think he must have been very depressed.'

This is the book that we're all hyping at work right now. For so many reasons. ~700 pages of witty, sad, weird (Irish) boarding school drama with all that comes with that. And Skippy, he dies in the first five pages. I have 300 pages left so I better get to it.

American Gods - Neil Gailman (2)

The three children went to the local church to hear the traveling preacher on Sundays, and they went to the little school to learn their letters and their fanners; while Essie also made sure they knew the mysteries of the piskies, which were the most important mysteries there were: redheaded men, with eyes and clothes as green as a river and turned-up noses, funny, squinting men who would, if they got a mind to, turn you and twist you and lead you out of your way, unless you had salt in your pocket, or a little bread. When the children went off to school, they each of them carried a little salt in one pocket, a little bread in the other, the old symbols of life and the earth, to make sure they came safely home once more, and they always did.

Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury (7)

'Stuff your eyes with wonder,' he said, 'live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic then any dream made or paid for in factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping its life away. To hell with that,' he said, 'shake the tree and knock the great sloth down on his ass'.

American Gods - Neil Gaiman (1)

"How was the funeral?" he asked.
"It's over," said Shadow.
"You want to talk about it?"
"No," said Shadow.
"Good." Wednesday grinned. "Too much talking these days. Talk talk talk. This country would get along much better if people learned how to suffer in silence."

Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury (6)

Most of us can't rush around, talking to everyone, know all the cities in the world, we haven't time, money or that many friends. The things you're looking for, Montag, are in the world, but only way the average chap will ever see ninety-nine per cent of them is in a book. Don't ask for guarantees. And don't look to be saved in any one thing, person, machine, or library. Do your own bit of saving, and if you drown, at least knowing you were headed for shore.

A Clockwork Orange - Anthony Burgess (1)

Then while he went hauwww hauww hauww like a doggie I tried the same style as for Georgie, banking all on one move-up, cross, cut-and I felt the britva go just deep enough in the meat of old Dim's wrist and he dropped his snaking oozy yelping like a little child. Then he tried to drink in all the blood from his wrist and howl at the same time, and there was to much krovvy to drink and he went bubble bubble, the red like fountaining our lovely, but not for very long.

The Old Man and the Sea - Ernest Hemingway (1)

The old man drank his coffee slowly. It was all he would have all day and he knew that he should take it. For a long time now eating had bored him and he never carried a lunch. He had a bottle of water in the bow of the skiff and that was all he needed for the day.

The Stranger - Albert Camus (1)

I remember it was a Sunday, and that put me off; I've never cared for Sundays. So I turned my head and lazily sniffed the smell of brine that Marie's head had left on the pillow. I slept until ten. After that I stayed in bed until noon, smoking cigarettes. I decided not to lunch at Céleste's restaurant as I usually did; they'd be sure to pester me with questions, and I disliked being questioned.
So I fried some eggs and ate them off the pan. I did without bread as there wasn't any left, and I couldn't be bothered going down to buy it.

On the Road - Jack Kerouac (3)

In the West he'd spent a third of his time in the poolhall, a third in jail, and a third in the public library. They'd seen him rushing eagerly down the winter streets, bareheaded, carrying books to the poolhall, or climbing trees to get into the attics of buddies where he spent days reading or hiding from the law.