I fumbled in my pocket; I held out the ring to him, on my open palm. The man’s large, pallid face went slack. He looked at the ring, and then at me.
‘Where did you get this?’ he said.
‘He gave it to me,’ I said. ‘He told me to bring it here.’
He stood and looked at me, hard. For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me he didn’t know what I was talking about. Then, without a word, he stepped back and opened the door.
‘I’m Hobie,’ he said, when I hesitated. ‘Come in.’
The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt, pp120-121
Title of book: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt
Reason for reading: I first saw this book on the “New Arrivals” shelf at my bookstore, and was intrigued by the cover art. It is also a book that I kept going back to and thinking about so when I saw it was on sale a few weeks ago I just went ahead and bought it. (And the main character shares his name with my husband)
First impressions: I love the cover art for this book. It looks like someone has wrapped the famous painting “The Goldfinch” in plain white paper, written on the wrapper in a charcoal pencil, and ripped part of the paper away to reveal the chained bird’s face. The bird appears to be staring from the book at the reader. The ripped paper looks real, like I would be able to feel it if I touched the cover. The pages are soft and thin, so it doesn’t appear to be a 770 page book from the outside. The binding is colored in such a way to look like yellowed, old tape, seemingly to hold the wrapper closed around the painting.
Previous reads by this author: None.
Hardcover, paperback, or ebook: Hardcover.
GoodReads rating: 4.05 average
First sentences: While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years. I’d been shut up in my hotel for more than a week, afraid to telephone anybody or go out; and my heart scrambled and floundered at even the most innocent noises: elevator bell, rattle of the minibar cart, even church clocks tolling the hour, de Westertoren, Krijtberg, a dark edge to the clangor, an inwrought fairy-tale sense of doom.
You can have a silence full of words. A lute retains, in its bowl, the notes it has played. The viol, in its strings, holds a concord. A shriveled petal can hold its scent, a prayer can rattle with curses; an empty house, when the owners have gone out, can still be loud with ghosts.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p534
Here at the close of the year 1533, his spirit is sturdy, his will strong, his front imperturbable. The courtiers see that he can shape events, mold them. He can contain the fears of other men, and give them a sense of solidity in a quaking world: this people, this dynasty, this miserable rainy island at the edge of the world.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p435
'…all our lives and fortunes depend now on that lady, and as well as being mutable she is mortal, and the whole history of the king’s marriage tells us a child in the womb is not an heir in the cradle.'
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p367
And in an adjacent parish, at the commemoration of the saints, where the priest requires us to remember our fellowship with the holy martyrs, 'cum Joanne, Stephano, Mathia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Alexandro, Marcellino, Petro' some person had shouted out, ‘and don’t forget me and my cousin Kate, and Dick with his cockle-barrel on Leadenhall, and his sister Susan and her little dog Posset.’
He puts his hand over his mouth. ‘If Posset needs a lawyer, you know where I am.’
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p323
At Smithfield in the stand put up for the dignitaries he meets the Venetian ambassador, Carlo Capello. They exchange a bow. ‘In what capacity are you here, Cromwell? As friend of this heretic, or by virtue or your position? In fact, what is your position? The devil alone knows.’
‘And I am sure he will tell Your Excellency, when you next have a private talk.’
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p307
At New Year’s he had given Anne a present of silver forks with handles of rock crystal. He hopes she will use them to eat with, not to stick in people.
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, p250
'Men say,' Liz reaches for her scissors, ‘“I can't endure it when women cry” - just as people say, “I can't endure this wet weather.” As if it were nothing to do with the men at all, the crying. Just one of those things that happen.'
Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel. (via wolf-hall)
(Source: the-library-and-step-on-it, via wolf-hall)
At their first conference, as Wykys laid out the papers, he had said, “You’re Walter’s lad, aren’t you? So what happened? Because, by God, there was no one rougher than you were when you were a boy.”
He would have explained, if he’d known what sort of explanation Wykys would understand. I gave up fighting because, when I lived in Florence, I looked at frescoes every day? He said, “I found an easier way to be.”
Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, pp 44-45