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Viktor Hyowgoyin pashtogh paron Hange t`erews iravats`i er aselov, or girk` steghtsel (nowyisk aynk`an ankatar, inch`pisin ays khghchowk orinakn e, or dowk` ayzhm ent`erts`owm ek`), nshanakowm e haskanal, or dra ejerowm aproghnerin vayel miak zgats`owme sern e: Ch`e? or girk` ent`erts`ele kam grele mekn e ayn sakavat`iv eghanaknerits`, oronts`ov mardik karogh en pashtpanel irents` arzhanapatvowt`yowne: Verjin hashvov, hents` grk`ern en mez ..
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Richard Flanagan |
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Gaghowt`apetn owzowm er asel, or ink`e verjapes giti ayn harts`i pataskhane, ore vaghowts` tanjowm er iren: Ishanowt`yane dzgtele, ezrakats`rets` na ir mtk`i parzowt`yan verjin pahin, siro bats`akayowt`yan ew, orn aveli vat e, sirelow anendownakowt`yan amenats`avali artahaytowt`yownn e:
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Richard Flanagan |
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You could never know when everything might change--a mood, a decision, a blanket. A life. They
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Richard Flanagan |
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smell its acrid horsehair upholstery and stale flour,
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Richard Flanagan |
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Asowm en, t`e lav patmoghe na e, ov patvatsk`i bots`in t`owyl e talis khzhrhel ir kyank`i patrowyge:
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Richard Flanagan |
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He would live to see people praised for things that were not worthy of praise, simply because truth was seen to be bad for their feelings.
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Richard Flanagan |
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auger-eyed woman's small stout form, outlining her
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Richard Flanagan |
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O amor e publico, ou nao e amor.
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Richard Flanagan |
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As a meteorite strike long ago explains the large lake now, so Amy's absence shaped everything, even when--and sometimes most particularly when--he wasn't thinking of her.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Once upon a time...long ago in a far-off place that everyone knows is not here or now or us.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Stories as written are progressive, sentence must build upon sentence as brick upon brick, yet the beauty of this life in its endless mystery is circular. Sun & moon, spheres endlessly circling. Black man, full circle; white man, bisected circle; life, the third circle, on & on, & round & round.
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Richard Flanagan |
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What do the hieroglyphs tell us of what it was like to live under the lash, building the pyramids? Do we talk of that? Do we? No, we talk of the magnificence and majesty of the Egyptians. Of the Romans. Of Saint Petersburg, and nothing of the bones of the hundred thousand slaves that it is built on.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Szczesliwy czlowiek nie ma przeszlosci, a nieszczesliwy nie ma nic poza nia
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Richard Flanagan |
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She always preferred strong lies to weak truths
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marriage
truth
women
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Richard Flanagan |
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I shall be a carrion monster, he whispered into the coral shell of her ear, an organ of women he found unspeakably moving in its soft, whorling vortex, and which always seemed to him an invitation to adventure.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Being prisoner great shame. Great! Redeem honour building railway for Emperor. Great honour. Great!
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Richard Flanagan |
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Rough work with a soul will always be open to all, including condemnation & reviling, while fine work housing emptiness is closed to all insults & is easily ivied over with paid praises
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commercialization
creativity
inspirational
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Richard Flanagan |
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To be fair to them, they were only after something that walled them off from the past and from people in general, not something that offered any connection that might prove painful or human. Thet wanted stories, I came to realise, in which they were already imprisoned, not stories in which they appeared along with the storyteller, accomplices in escaping.
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stories
the-novel
transcendence
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Richard Flanagan |
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Thinking: The world is. It just is.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Speedo, when they worked us seventy days and
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Richard Flanagan |
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Io non ci credo, disse la donna. No, non ci credo. e una parola troppo piccola, non le pare signor Evans?Ho un'amica, a Fern Tree, che insegna pianoforte. e una donna molto musicale. Io non ho orecchio. Ma un giorno la mia amica mi dice che ogni stanza ha una nota. Devi solo scoprirla. Si mette a gorgheggiare in giro, in alto e in basso. E di colpo una nota ritorna indietro, rimbalza sulle pareti, si leva dal pavimento e riempie la stanza c..
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Richard Flanagan |
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He understood that he shared certain features, habits and history with the war hero. But he was not him. He'd just had more success at living than at dying,
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Richard Flanagan |
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The Line welcomed rain and sun. Seeds germinated in mass graves, between skulls and femurs and broken pick handles, tendrils rose up alongside dog spikes and clavicles, thrust around teak sleepers and tibias, scapulas, vertebrae, fibulas and femurs.
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dying
life
war
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Richard Flanagan |
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He had avoided what he regarded as some obvious errors of life, such as politics and golf. But
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Richard Flanagan |
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Though every dead man is a reduction of their number, the thousand POWs who first left Changi as Evans' J Force--an assortment of Tasmanians and West Australians surrendered in Java, South Australians surrendered at Singapore, survivors of the sinking of the destroyer, HMAS Newcastle, a few Vics and New South Welshmen from other military misadventures, and some RAAF airmen--remain Evans' J Force. That's what they were when they arrived and ..
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Richard Flanagan |
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the tormented, hopeless feeling of two people who lived together in a love not yet love, nor yet not; an unshared life shared; a conspiracy of affections, illnesses, tragedies, jokes and labour; a marriage--the strange, terrible neverendingness of human beings. A family.
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Richard Flanagan |
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The idea of the past is as useless as the idea of the future. Both could be invoked by anybody about anything. There is never any more beauty than there is now. There is no more joy or sorrow or wonder than there is now, nor perfection, nor any more evil nor any more good than there is now.
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now
past
present
time
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Richard Flanagan |
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death poem of Hyakka,
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Richard Flanagan |
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lHrb ky'nt bshry@. lHrb hy m nmthlh nHn. lHrb hy m nf`lh
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Richard Flanagan |
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Days and months are travellers of eternity. So too the years that pass by
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Richard Flanagan |
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I have a friend in Fern Tree who teaches piano. Very musical, she is. I'm tone-deaf myself. But one day she was telling me how every room has a note. You just have to find it. She started warbling away, up and down. And suddenly one note came back to us, just bounced back off the walls and rose from the floor and filled the place with this perfect hum. This beautiful sound. Like you've thrown a plum and an orchard comes back at you. You wou..
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Richard Flanagan |
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ymkn Htw lr`b dkhl ktb ymnHh shklan wm`n~. 'm fy lHy@ flm y`d llr`b shkl 'kthr mm ywjd llm`n~. lr`b hw lr`b. w`ndm ydhm ySbH km lw 'nh l ywjd shy fy lkwn Gyrh
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Richard Flanagan |
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Later, crying became simply affirmation of feeling, and feeling the only compass in life. Feeling became fashionable and emotion became a theatre in which people were players who no longer knew who they were off the stage. Dorrigo Evans would live long enough to see all these changes. And he would remember a time when people were ashamed of crying. When they feared the weakness it bespoke. The trouble to which it led. He would live to see p..
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Richard Flanagan |
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n ldhkr@ tshbh l`dl@ fqT, l'nh fkr@ khTy'@ 'khr~ tj`l lns ysh`rwn b'nhm `l~ m yrm
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Richard Flanagan |
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ymknk 'n tdkhl fy Hrb m` l`lm, lkn l`lm syrbH dy'man
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Richard Flanagan |
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they together staggered through those days that built like a scream that never ended, a wet, green shriek Dorrigo Evans found perversely amplified by the quinine deafness, the malarial haze that meant a minute took a lifetime to pass and that sometimes it was not possible to recall a week of misery and horror.
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Richard Flanagan |
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The only people who believe in straight roads are generals & mail coach drivers.
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Richard Flanagan |
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They were men like other young men, unknown to themselves. So much that lay within them they were now travelling to meet. Beneath
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Richard Flanagan |
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My only idea ever, Dorrigo had confessed, is to advance forward and charge the windmill. Taylor had laughed, but Dorrigo had meant it. It's only our faith in illusions that makes life possible, Squizzy, he had explained, in as close to an explanation of himself as he ever offered. It's believing in reality that does us in every time. He
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Richard Flanagan |
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A murderer's light spilled out from the sunset. It flooded William Street with its ruddy glow and ran beneath the blue-black hail clouds and up the boulevard like hot blood.
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Richard Flanagan |
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What was a prisoner of war anyway? Less than a man, just material to be used to make the railway, like the teak sleepers and steel rails and dog spikes.
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war
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Richard Flanagan |
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And you were truthful. No. You weren't truthful? I was accurate.
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Richard Flanagan |
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name is Markos, he said. But call me Marco.
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Richard Flanagan |
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Decades would pass. A few short sections would be formed in time into strangely resurrected, trunkless legs-tourist sites, sacred sites, national sites.
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past
war
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Richard Flanagan |