Quite

"Just tell me the truth."

"There is no truth. There is only opinion and memory."

Smoke, Alex de Campi

Well who hasn’t, really?

Miley Cyrus lit up a joint on stage and twerked with a dwarf,  

The Independent, November 11, 2013

Regrettably recognisable

“Yes. Your attitude measures up to the two requirements of love. You want to go to bed with her and can’t, and you don’t know her very well. Ignorance of the other person topped up with deprivation, Jim. You fit the formula all right, and what’s more you want to go on fitting it. The old hopeless passion isn’t it?

Lucky Jim, Kingsley Amis

This seems familiar

Arthur's cubicle used to be near the watercooler, but the bosses tired of having to chat wtih him each time they got thirsty. So the watercooler stayed and he was moved. Now his desk is in a distant corner, as far from the locus of power as possible but nearer the cupboard of pens, which is a consolation.

The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman

I think he's sat next to me on the bus before

The man wore a smart black suit over a black shirt and a latex mask of a red fox. The fox's wide smile was hungry, the eyes that glinted from its head an unnatural green that made me think of the damage a broken beer bottle can do.

The Bullet Trick, Louise Welsh

A nice Tory lady

"Sally had a lot of blonde hair in expensive confusion and a lot of clicking, rattling, sliding jewellery"

The Line of Beauty. Alan Hollinghurst

post apocalyptic love

In a pocket of his knapsack he'd found a last half packet of cocoa and he fixed it for the boy and then poured his own cup with hot water and sat blowing at the rim.

You promised not to do that, the boy said.

What?

You know what, Papa.

He poured the hot water back in the pan and took the boy's cup and poured some of the cocoa into his own and then handed it back.

I have to watch you all the time, the boy said.

I know.

If you break little promises, you'll break big ones. That's what you said.

I know. But I won't.

The Road, Cormac McCarthy

hope through bleak

Everyone struggles against despair, but it always wins in the end. It has to. It's the thing that lets us say goodbye.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

Horrible, but beautifully put

Turkish soldiers are rampaging around Smyrna. A young boy is hiding at home, waiting for his father to return.

When they hear knocking, they jump. Stepan goes to the window and looks down. “It must be Father.”

“Go. Let him in! Quick!” Tookhie says.

Karekin vaults down the stairs two at a time. At the door he stops, collects himself, and quietly unbolts the door. At first, when he pulls it open, he sees nothing. Then there’s a soft hiss, followed by a ripping noise. The noise sounds as though it has nothing to do with him until suddenly a shirt button pops off and clatters against the door. Karekin looks down as all at once his mouth fills with a warm fluid. He feels himself being lifted off his feet, the sensation bringing back to him childhood memories of being whisked into the air by his father, and he says, “Dad, my button,” before he is lifted high enough to make out the steel bayonet puncturing his sternum. The fire’s reflection leads along the gun barrel, over the sight and hammer, to the soldier’s ecstatic face.

Middlesex, Jeffery Eugenides

Seeing from the inside out

A wizard (not that it matters, you genre snob) discusses 'the good old days' with an equally elderly witch...

"Everything was a different colour in those days,"

"That's true." 

"It didn't rain so much in the summer time."

"There were more old people. The world was full of them," said the wizard.

"Yes I know. And now it's full of young people. Funny, really. I mean, you'd expect it to be the other way round." 

Equal Rites, Terry Pratchett

Awkward

The narrator has just spent the afternoon with a couple who are in mid-breakdown....

"The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, although I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs"

F. Scott Fizgerald, The Great Gatsby

The kind of book you'd let your servants read

The narrator speaks of her sister's book, famed for its salacious content...

People snuck off to Stratford or London or Toronto even, and obtained their copies on the sly, as was the custom then with condoms. Back at home they drew the curtains and read, with disapproval, with relish, with avidity and glee - even the ones who'd never thought of opening a novel before. There's nothing like a shovelful of dirt to encourage literacy.

Margaret Atwood. The Blind Assassin