Quotes About Observation

'Post 9/11 Blues' is an observational satire about the surreal circus of fear at that time. It's a generational thing.

It was surreal to step out of my own existence and see how most American children experience things.

It's really surreal watching myself on television because I pick up on all my mannerisms. You really get to see yourself in a completely different light when you actually watch yourself.

Hyperrealism can create an atmosphere of surrealism because nobody sees the world in such detail.

The ear will surrender even at those times when the eye wants to close, when the eye doesn't want to watch.

There are significant moments in everyone's day that can make literature. That's what you ought to write about.

My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn't like what she saw. I shrugged.

Però ha certi occhi, disse Bonnie. Che hanno gli occhi? Sono tristi. Gli occhi più tristi che abbia mai visto in un uomo.

My Crow A crow flew into the tree outside my window. It was not Ted Hughes's crow, or Galway's crow. Or Frost's, Pasternak's, or Lorca's crow. Or one of Homer's crows, stuffed with gore, after the battle. This was just a crow. That never fit in anywhere in its life, or did anything worth mentioning. It sat there on the branch for a few minutes. Then picked up and flew beautifully out of my life.

Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead.

It was a cool day and very clear. You could see a long way-but not as far as Velma had gone.

Time passed again. I don't know how long. I had no watch. They don't make that kind of time in watches anyway.

A check girl in peach-bloom Chinese pajamas came over to take my hat and disapprove of my clothes. She had eyes like strange sins.

A really good detective never gets married.

Tall, aren't you? I didn't mean to be.

He turned and walked across the floor and out. I watched the door close. I listened to his steps going away down the imitation marble corridor. After a while they got faint, then they got silent. I kept on listening anyway.

She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term I'll eat my spare tyre, rim and all.

I had been stalking the bluebottle fly for five minutes, waiting for him to sit down. He didn't want to sit down. He just wanted to do wing-overs and sing the prologue to Pagliacci. I had the fly swatter poised in midair and I was all set. There was a patch of bright sunlight on the corner of the desk and I knew that sooner or later that was where he was going to light. But when he did, I didn't even see him at first. The buzzing stopped and there he was. And then the phone rang.

The subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket

There was nothing to it. The Super Chief was on time, as it almost always is, and the subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket.

I lit a cigarette and dragged a smoking stand beside the chair. The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips. I looked the place over. You can't tell anything about an outfit like that. They might be making millions, and they might have the sheriff in the back room, with his chair tilted against the safe.

She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all.

No visible scars. Hair dark brown, some gray. Eyes brown. Height six feet, one half inch. Weight about one ninety. Name Philip Marlowe. Occupation private detective.

The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips.