The single greatest thing written by anyone, ever

[8675309]

@OtakuLoki

The explanation of Catch-22, from the novel.

That is mine as well.

[bbs2k]

Just a personal fave:

@Buk

in the most decent sometimes sun
there is the softsmoke feeling from urns
and the canned sound of old battleplanes
and if you go inside and run your finger
along the window ledge you’ll find
dirt, maybe even earth.
and if you look out the window
there will be the day, and as you
get older you’ll keep looking
keep looking
sucking your tongue in a little
ah ah
no no
maybe

some do it naturally
some obscenely
everywhere.

It ain’t the ten commandments, but it is butter to me babe.

[Crocodiles_And_Boulevards]

JABBERWOCKY
Lewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

EDIT: I really need to remember to start using “uffish” as an adjective more often

[pepperlandgirl]

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself
(I am large. I contain multitudes.)
–Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

And two passages from Death Comes For the Archbishop by Willa Cather.

“Where there is great love there are always miracles,” he said at length. “One might almost say that an apparition is human vision corrected by divine love. I do not see you as you really are, Joseph: I see you through my affection for you. The Miracles of the Church seem to me to rest not so much upon faces or voices or healing power coming suddenly near to us from afar off, but upon our perceptions being made finer, so that for a moment our eyes can see and our ears can hear what is there about us always.”

and

He continued to murmur, to move his hands a little, and Magdalena thought he was trying to ask for something, or to tell them something. But in reality the Bishop was not there at all; he was standing in a tip-tilted green field among his native mountains, and he was trying to give consolation to a young man who was being torn in two before his eyes by the desire to go and the necessity to stay. He was trying to forge a new Will in that devout and exhausted priest; and the time was short, for the diligence for Paris was already rumbling down the mountain gorge.

[Marlitharn]

My favorite Poe poem, “To ______”:

Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
In the mad pride of intellectuality,
Maintained “the power of words”- denied that ever
A thought arose within the human brain
Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
Two words- two foreign soft dissyllables-
Italian tones, made only to be murmured
By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew
That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”
Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions
Than even seraph harper, Israfel,
(Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures,”)
Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
I cannot write- I cannot speak or think-
Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling,
This standing motionless upon the golden
Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams.
Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
Upon the left, and all the way along,
Amid empurpled vapors, far away
To where the prospect terminates- thee only.

A love poem about how words aren’t adequate to write a love poem - very cool.

[JCorre]

Words fail.

Virginia Woolf

[Paul_in_Qatar]

I do not know about the greatest short quote. (Although I would like to hit me the Gandalf’s speech about people who live in dangerous times never wanted to do so.)

But, the greatest book ever written by a single person was Davidson’s Oxford Companion to Food.

[jjimm]

I have to confess a minor vested interest in this, being an Englishman, but Churchill’s wartime speeches, when Britain was alone and seriously considering that it would be invaded, send shivers up my spine.

I have, myself, full confidence that if all do their duty, if nothing is neglected, and if the best arrangements are made, as they are being made, we shall prove ourselves once again able to defend our Island home, to ride out the storm of war, and to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years, if necessary alone.

At any rate, that is what we are going to try to do. That is the resolve of His Majesty’s Government - every man of them. That is the will of Parliament and the nation. The British Empire and the French Republic, linked together in their cause and in their need, will defend to the death their native soil, aiding each other like good comrades to the utmost of their strength.

Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail.

We shall go on to the end: we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God’s good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.

Ignoring his strange intonation, listen to that speech and hear how he says “we shall never surrender” - like it’s a total, matter-of-fact statement, but with a hint of steely resolve.

What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire.

The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, “This was their finest hour.”

And after the Battle of Britain that he had predicted:

The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of the world war by their prowess and by their devotion.

Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.

I truly believe that without Churchill’s rhetorical skill (in addition to his many other qualities), the morale of the people would have faltered and Britain would have capitulated.

[Defensive_Indifference]

@jjimm

I have to confess a minor vested interest in this, being an Englishman, but Churchill’s wartime speeches, when Britain was alone and seriously considering that it would be invaded, send shivers up my spine.Ignoring his strange intonation, listen to that speech and hear how he says “we shall never surrender” - like it’s a total, matter-of-fact statement, but with a hint of steely resolve.And after the Battle of Britain that he had predicted:I truly believe that without Churchill’s rhetorical skill (in addition to his many other qualities), the morale of the people would have faltered and Britain would have capitulated.

I would give up a few body parts to be able to write like Churchill. One of my favorite quotes, which is pure genius for both its economy and its tough resolve is (and pardon me if I mangle it): “We are waiting for the long-promised invasion. So are the fishes.”

[don_t_ask]

When I lived in London in the 1970s someone painted, with a broad house painting brush, on a blank wall across the road from a block of flats, in gigantic white letters:

GOOOOOD MORNING EMMA.

It remains the most evocative bit of writing I have ever seen. The first time I walked past, the day after the night it was done, I imagined Emma opening the curtains to see that greeting. Every time I walked past it for a year it made me smile and still does today.

[Cuckoorex]

From The Gathering’s song “Waking Hour”…granted, much of the impact is dependent on context and vocalist Anneke van Giersbergen’s delivery, but I find it touches me deeply simply as poetry.

The fight is done
And who are we to judge
What will become
All the iron armor
Is laid down away
Followed by the heroes
Who belong in rested earth, we pray
We feel the rescue coming near
Within the woken soul to hear
we sense the calm all wrapped in fear
And all the while we heed
The senses way too vast to see
We beg of you to not let go
Our names will provide us with a soul
Falling down
Start again
Life can bring you down
The monumental truth
Of elegance in you
Falling for
A part of who you are
Makes you shine inside

[RikWriter]

Isaiah 40:31 (King James Version)

But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint

[This_ll_Do]

I can’t narrow it down any further than “greatest in given genre”-- poetry, drama, fiction, non-fiction.
My nomination for non-fiction is the Conclusion to Pater’s The Renaissance.

This passage in particular:

The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human spirit, is to rouse, to startle it to a life of constant and eager observation. Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive to us,–for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?
To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.

[NoCoolUserName]

For those of you not familiar with the Discworld books by Terry Pratchett, the Hogfather is the local equivalent of Father Christmas. And Death (the anthropomorphic personification thereof) always speaks in capital letters.

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m not stupid. You’re saying humans need…fantasies to make life bearable.”
REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOMEKIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.
“Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little–”
YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.
“So we can believe the big ones?”
YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.
This is the reason I read Pratchett. The humor is good, too.

[NoCoolUserName]

Or maybe my favorite is (and this one should need no introduction) Frodo talking with Gandalf:

“…Now at any rate he is as bad as an Orc, and just an enemy. He deserves death.”
“Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends.”

[Eutychus]

I tramp a perpetual journey—(come listen all!)
My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods;
No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair;
I have no chair, no church, no philosophy;
I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, or exchange;
But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll,
My left hand hooking you round the waist,
My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents, and a plain public road.

Not I—not any one else, can travel that road for you,
You must travel it for yourself.

It is not far—it is within reach;
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know;
Perhaps it is every where on water and on land.

Shoulder your duds, dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go.

If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip,
And in due time you shall repay the same service to me;
For after we start, we never lie by again.

This day before dawn I ascended a hill, and look’d at the crowded heaven,
And I said to my Spirit, When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of everything in them, shall we be fill’d and satisfied then?
And my Spirit said, No, we but level that life, to pass and continue beyond.

You are also asking me questions, and I hear you;
I answer that I cannot answer—you must find out for yourself.

Sit a while, dear son;
Here are biscuits to eat, and here is milk to drink;
But as soon as you sleep, and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-bye kiss, and open the gate for your egress hence.

Long enough have you dream’d contemptible dreams;
Now I wash the gum from your eyes;
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light, and of every moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded, holding a plank by the shore;
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

[Darth_Sensitive]

This is brilliant. (Also in the limericks thread.)

There once was a man named Bertold
Who drank beer when the weather grew cold
As he reached for his cup…
“NEEEEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP!!!”
Oh, snap! You just got limerickrolled!

[Malthus]

Houseman’s (public domain) poem strikes me as simply perfect:

Stars,I have seen them fall,
But when they drop and die
No star is lost at all
From all the star-sown sky.
The toil of all that be
Helps not the primal fault;
It rains into the sea,
And still the sea is salt.

Edit: perfectly optimistic, or perfectly pessimistic?

[Marley23]

I can’t think of an individual passage from Gatsby or Lolita right now, so I’ll give one obvious choice and one not-so-obvious choice (I hope).

@Shakespeare

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismayed. Be cheerful, sir!
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air!
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples- the great Globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

-Prospero, The Tempest

@Haruki Murakami

Can I be honest with you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? I mean, really, really, really honest? Sometimes I get sooo scared! I’ll wake up in the middle of the night all alone, hundreds of miles away from anybody, and it’s pitch dark, and I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen to me in the future, and I get so scared I want to scream. Does that happen to you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird? When it happens, I try to remind myself that I am connected to others- other things and other people. I work as hard as I can to list their names in my head. On the list, of course, is you, Mr. Wind-Up Bird. And the alley, and the well, and the persimmon tree, and that kind of thing. And the wigs that I’ve made here with my own hands. And the little bits and pieces I remember about the boy. All these little things (though you’re not just another one of those little things, Mr. Wind-Up Bird, but anyhow … ) help me to come back “here” little by little.

-The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

It’s a little hard to say what struck me about that second passage (it’s an excerpt from a long letter). But the underlined part stayed with me for a couple of years, even though I couldn’t find it again in the book or remember which character wrote it or anything. Just as a string of sounds or images, I found that very perfect in a small way, the way somebody - allegedly Tolkien - was said to have loved the phrase “cellar door.”

[Bosstone]

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings. Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.

There is more to it, of course, but those two sentences have rung in my head for years.