small glass texts
Michael Dobbs House of Cards Fontana Books 1989 p339
'We've been through this all together, as a team. Everything I've done has been for you, and you wouldn't have been able to get into Downing Street without me. We succeed together - or we fail together. If I'm going to end up on the compost heap, Francis, I'm damned if I'm going to be there alone. You can't afford to let me tell what I know. You owe me!'
Earl Emerson Vanishing Smile Ballantine Books 1995 p93
“You didn’t hear a gunshot?” “In the air corps I heard plenty.” As I unlocked the front door I noticed Nigel had brought along a shabby suitcase. He flicked the glowing cigar butt onto my walkway.
"Somebody's going to have to pick that up," I said.
"Nonsense. It's compost. You know what your trouble is? You're too easy. That's why people walk all over you."
Janet Fitch White Oleander Little, Brown & Company 1999 p31
'We sat on the roof in the burnt wind.
"This ragged heart," she said, pulling at her kimono. "I should rip it out and bury it for compost."
I wished I could touch her, but she was inside her own isolation booth, like on Miss America. She couldn’t hear me through the glass'.
Dick Francis Whip Hand Pan Books 1979 p206
'…I eyed it disgustedly, reading it through. Exactly the same as the ones Jenny had sent, except signed with a flourish, "Elizabeth More," and headed with the Clifton address.
"Do you realize they may have to produce this filthy bit of paper in court?"
"Been in my pocket, hasn't it?" he said defensively.
"What else've you got in there? Potting compost?"
He took the letter from me and put it in the glove box, and let down the window.
"Hot, isn't it?"
Sue Grafton "A" is for Alibi Bantam Books 1987 p213
"I wrestled out a place for myself with my backside, shifting my bare legs down into the garbage, wrinkling my nose in disgust. My right foot was touching something cold and gooey and the trash beneath me felt warm, like a compost heap, smouldering with bacteria. I pushed up slightly and peered over my shoulder through the crack, the metal lid tilted slightly ajar by the mountain of accumulated trash"
Thomas Harris Hannibal Dell Books 2000 p385
"…In the older part of the cemetery they mow along the paths every time and get between the tombstones with a mower as often as they can. Bits of ribbon, the stalks of dried flowers, are mixed in the soil. At the very back of the cemetery is a compost heap where the old flowers go. Between the dancing heart balloon and the compost heap, a backhoe is idling, a young black man at the controls, another one on the ground, cupping a match against the wind as he lights a cigarette…"
Barry Maitland Silvermeadow Orion Publishers 2000 p354
'She shook her head, trying to find words of conversation. She wanted him to talk, about anything else.`So, what's with the compost heap?'
`Ah yes, I've been sitting here for much of the day contemplating that' - he waved a hand at the debris - ‘trying to learn the appropriate lessons'.
Marge Piercy Gone to Soldiers Ballantine Books 1987 p13
'Uncle Nat's letters were full of disasters of incomprehensible proportions, bodies falling like leaves to make the bloodiest of compost as the war went on and on. The Japanese now controlled Shanghai'.
W.G. Sebald Austerlitz Penguin Books 2001 p176
'One evening, said Austerlitz, I gathered up all my papers, bundled or loose, my notepads and exercise books, my files and lecture notes, anything with my writing on it, and carried the entire collection out of the house to the far end of the garden, where I threw it on the compost heap and buried it under layers of rotted leaves and spadefuls of earth'.
Stephanie Bond Got Your Number St Martin’s Paperbacks 2001 p227
‘Please excuse my appearance,’ he said in a boyish voice as he sat down heavily. ‘I was working on my compost pile when my beeper went off.’
She had no idea what compost was, but the man must have some means if he had a pile of it. At the moment, however, she had more pressing matters on her mind. Carl was dead. Dead. Dead. The more the word revolved in her head, the less it even seemed like a word, much less one that was so final'.
Stephen Booth Black Dog Harper Collins 2001 p276
'Wilford passed him up two wooden stakes about six feet long. Harry chose a spot carefully and drove the first stake deep into the compost. It squelched into the heap with a burst of putrid odour. Then he heaved his weight onto the end of the stake until it stopped moving, with the last couple of feet protruding.
"You've got to give it a bit of air', explained Wilford as Harry drove in the second stake'.
I am indebted to these authors, whose inclusion of the compost image in their novels fed my imagination. Their books were a pleasure to read and I believe that visitors to this site would also enjoy reading their books.
'We've been through this all together, as a team. Everything I've done has been for you, and you wouldn't have been able to get into Downing Street without me. We succeed together - or we fail together. If I'm going to end up on the compost heap, Francis, I'm damned if I'm going to be there alone. You can't afford to let me tell what I know. You owe me!'
Earl Emerson Vanishing Smile Ballantine Books 1995 p93
“You didn’t hear a gunshot?” “In the air corps I heard plenty.” As I unlocked the front door I noticed Nigel had brought along a shabby suitcase. He flicked the glowing cigar butt onto my walkway.
"Somebody's going to have to pick that up," I said.
"Nonsense. It's compost. You know what your trouble is? You're too easy. That's why people walk all over you."
Janet Fitch White Oleander Little, Brown & Company 1999 p31
'We sat on the roof in the burnt wind.
"This ragged heart," she said, pulling at her kimono. "I should rip it out and bury it for compost."
I wished I could touch her, but she was inside her own isolation booth, like on Miss America. She couldn’t hear me through the glass'.
Dick Francis Whip Hand Pan Books 1979 p206
'…I eyed it disgustedly, reading it through. Exactly the same as the ones Jenny had sent, except signed with a flourish, "Elizabeth More," and headed with the Clifton address.
"Do you realize they may have to produce this filthy bit of paper in court?"
"Been in my pocket, hasn't it?" he said defensively.
"What else've you got in there? Potting compost?"
He took the letter from me and put it in the glove box, and let down the window.
"Hot, isn't it?"
Sue Grafton "A" is for Alibi Bantam Books 1987 p213
"I wrestled out a place for myself with my backside, shifting my bare legs down into the garbage, wrinkling my nose in disgust. My right foot was touching something cold and gooey and the trash beneath me felt warm, like a compost heap, smouldering with bacteria. I pushed up slightly and peered over my shoulder through the crack, the metal lid tilted slightly ajar by the mountain of accumulated trash"
Thomas Harris Hannibal Dell Books 2000 p385
"…In the older part of the cemetery they mow along the paths every time and get between the tombstones with a mower as often as they can. Bits of ribbon, the stalks of dried flowers, are mixed in the soil. At the very back of the cemetery is a compost heap where the old flowers go. Between the dancing heart balloon and the compost heap, a backhoe is idling, a young black man at the controls, another one on the ground, cupping a match against the wind as he lights a cigarette…"
Barry Maitland Silvermeadow Orion Publishers 2000 p354
'She shook her head, trying to find words of conversation. She wanted him to talk, about anything else.`So, what's with the compost heap?'
`Ah yes, I've been sitting here for much of the day contemplating that' - he waved a hand at the debris - ‘trying to learn the appropriate lessons'.
Marge Piercy Gone to Soldiers Ballantine Books 1987 p13
'Uncle Nat's letters were full of disasters of incomprehensible proportions, bodies falling like leaves to make the bloodiest of compost as the war went on and on. The Japanese now controlled Shanghai'.
W.G. Sebald Austerlitz Penguin Books 2001 p176
'One evening, said Austerlitz, I gathered up all my papers, bundled or loose, my notepads and exercise books, my files and lecture notes, anything with my writing on it, and carried the entire collection out of the house to the far end of the garden, where I threw it on the compost heap and buried it under layers of rotted leaves and spadefuls of earth'.
Stephanie Bond Got Your Number St Martin’s Paperbacks 2001 p227
‘Please excuse my appearance,’ he said in a boyish voice as he sat down heavily. ‘I was working on my compost pile when my beeper went off.’
She had no idea what compost was, but the man must have some means if he had a pile of it. At the moment, however, she had more pressing matters on her mind. Carl was dead. Dead. Dead. The more the word revolved in her head, the less it even seemed like a word, much less one that was so final'.
Stephen Booth Black Dog Harper Collins 2001 p276
'Wilford passed him up two wooden stakes about six feet long. Harry chose a spot carefully and drove the first stake deep into the compost. It squelched into the heap with a burst of putrid odour. Then he heaved his weight onto the end of the stake until it stopped moving, with the last couple of feet protruding.
"You've got to give it a bit of air', explained Wilford as Harry drove in the second stake'.
I am indebted to these authors, whose inclusion of the compost image in their novels fed my imagination. Their books were a pleasure to read and I believe that visitors to this site would also enjoy reading their books.
