'the life that went on in them seemed to me made up of evasions and negations . . . this guarded mode of existence was like living under a tyranny. people's speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and repressed. every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. the people asleep in those houses, i thought, tried to live like the mice in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over the surface of things in the dark. the growing piles of ashes and cinders in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, consuming process of life went on at all.'
-- willa cather, my ántonia
-- michelle tea, the chelsea whistle
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