In a knot of eight crossings, which is about the average-size knot, there are 256 different 'over-and-under' arrangements possible... Make only one change in this 'over and under' sequence and either an entirely different knot is made or no knot at all may result.
All stemmed from Quoyle's chief failure, a failure of normal appearance.
Quoyle large, white, stumbling along going nowhere
Quoyle, who spoke little himself, inspired talkers. His only skill in the game of life
That was the stuff of other lives, he was waiting for his to begin. He got in the habit of walking around the trailer and asking aloud, "Who knows?" He said, "Who knows?" For no one knew. He meant, anything could happen. A spinning coin, still balanced on its rim, may fall in either direction.
Quoyle with regards to Petal, his wife, "There was a month of fiery happiness. Then six kinked years of suffering...In another time, in another sex, she would have been Genghis Khan.
Why do we weep in grief,' the aunt wondered. 'Dogs, deer, birds sufferent with dry eyes and in silence. The dumb suffering of animals. Probably a survival technique.
Quoyle, you got any maritime connections?' 'My grandfather was a sealer.' 'Jesus. You always come out at me out of left field.
Dad, there's smoke coming out of the can and coming out of your mouth, too. How do you do that, daddy?
And three lucky stones strung on a wire to keep the house safe.
the old place of the Quoyles, half ruined, isolated, the walls and doors of it pumiced by stony lives of dead generations. The aunt felt a hot pang. Nothing would drive them out a second time.
He [Quoyle] did not want a boat, shied from the thought of water. Ashamed he could not swim, couldn't learn.
'Dad, are we scared?' said Sunshine. 'No, honey. It's an adventure.
It was not until the next evening that he discovered he had a page from Leviticus stuck to his back.
Petal, like a persistent song phrase, like a few stubborn lines of verse memorized in childhood. The needle was stuck.
For the devil had long ago taken a shine to Tert Card, filled him like a cream horn with itch and irritation. His middle initial was X. Face like cottage cheese clawed with a fork.
which bloody misbegotten Card takes the liberty of recasting in his own insane tongue. As the bloody bog-rat's just done.
The editorial page played streams of invective across the provincial political scene like a fire hose. Harangues, pitted with epithets. Gammy bird was a hard bite. Looked life right in its shifty, bloodshot eye. A tough little paper. Gave Quoyle an uneasy feeling, the feeling of standing on a playground watching others play games whose rules he didn't know.
We run a car wreck photo every week, whether we have a car wreck or not. That's our golden rule.
Nutbeem influenced a little by the lunar cycle. Had a touch of werewolf. At full moon he burst, talked himself dry, took exercise in the form of dancing and fighting at the Starlight Lounge, then slowly fell back to contemplation.
The ocean twitched like a vast cloth spread over snakes.