Esquire picked 27 sentences from Philip Roth’s “The Human Stain” that it says can’t help but make you happy (some profanities included):
“You’re not up to fucking somebody who can’t read,” she said. “You’re going to drop me because I’m not a worthy, legitimate person who reads. You’re going to say to me, ‘Learn to read or go.’ ” “No,” I told her, “I’m going to fuck you all the harder because you can’t read.” “Good,” she said, “we understand each other. I don’t do it like those literate girls and I don’t want to be done to like them.” “I’m going to fuck you,” I said, “for just what you are.” “That’s the ticket,” she says. We were both laughing by then. Faunia’s got the laugh of a barmaid who keeps a baseball bat at her feet in case of trouble, and so she was laughing that laugh of hers, that scrappy, I’ve-seen-it-all laugh — you know, the coarse, easy laugh of the woman with a past — and by then she’s unzipping my fly. But she was right on the money about my having decided to give her up. All the way back from Vermont I was thinking exactly what she said I was thinking. But I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to impose my wonderful virtue on her. Or on myself. That’s over. I know these things don’t come without a cost. I know that there’s no insurance you can buy on this. I know how the thing that’s restoring you can wind up killing you. I know that every mistake that a man can make usually has a sexual accelerator. But right now I happen not to care. I wake up in the morning, there’s a towel on the floor, there’s baby oil on the bedside table. How did all that get there? Then I remember. Got there because I’m alive again. Because I’m back in the tornado. Because this is what it is with a capital isness.
Well, thanks Esquire. Have a lovely weekend, all.