The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton. Published in 1621.
Noga Arikha describes it as “the apogee of Renaissance scholarship – at once the summa of classical learning spliced and rendered in the vernacular for the delight of its early modern audience, and a dense network of embedded quotations, a seemingly infinite set of hyperlinks.”
He paused and gazed lugubriously at a pump attendant giving free stamps with change. ‘Growing old together…. Horrible!’
Image from the audiobook read by the immensely talented Robin Bailey. Oh, his rendition of Rupert Margolis… fabulous and funny!
On top of the pile was an unpublished collection called Seals, Crests, and Coats of Arms of Some British Organizations, Being an Attempt to Classify Their Genealogies and Histories. It was by somebody named H. Probisher Protherham whom Lenox thanked his lucky stars he didn’t know. A man who could write a treatise on crests was a man capable of anything, was Lenox’s feeling. Give him open rein at a dinner party and there was no level of tediousness he might not achieve.
“Ah, but your death would have distressed the dear woman. I got my thanks,” he added, with a smile that certainly would have driven Emerson to violence. “When she kissed me. it was quite a touching scene, I believe.”
“She thought you were dying. We all thought so.”
“As you see, I was not obliging enough to finish the process.”
You’re always you, and that don’t change, and you’re always changing, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
Happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain and happy the town at night whose wizards are all ashes. For it is of old rumour that the soul of the devil-bought hastes not from his charnel clay, but fats and instructs the very worm that gnaws, till out of corruption, horrid life springs, and the dull scavengers of earth wax crafty to vex it and swell monstrous to plague it. Great holes secretly are digged where earth’s pores ought to suffice, and things have learnt to walk that ought to crawl.
I loosed it down the hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable when you drink Jeeves’s patent morning revivers, of having the top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquetballs, felt better.
Bertie attempts to recover from a “little dinner” he’d given the night before for his pal, Gussie Fink-Nottle.