Some Books Are Not For Sale Quotes

“The Florida side of my family is huge. People married young. Were Fruitful. Multiplied. As a kid a family fish fry might see 50 gather in someone's First District yard. A great-uncle frying mullet. Adults in the shade as kids played. Games of tag with complex rules. Jumping Live Oak roots. Flinging Chinaberries. You'd limp to the shade bruised and breathless. Hear a story about a cousin caught stealing hogs. Quickly get sent away – "Go play! This is Grown People Business!" We'd head back out. Climb trees. Make palm frond swords. Years passed. I grew up and found that most of those relatives were gone. I had missed the Grown People Business.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My grandpa talked about how when he was young ladies would wear vanilla extract as perfume. You couldn't tell if they were trying to smell good or had just baked cookies. I'm less coy myself.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“There are situations considered "not fit for children." Many I know grew up with these situations. Eight-year-olds with the Sheriff's Office number memorized. Southernness is raking up countless bags of Magnolia leaves knowing you'll eventually get a few blooms.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My family lost most of our old photos. And now? We scan the backgrounds of photos belonging to others just to catch glimpses of ourselves.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“As kids we went to the Trenton, FL roller skating rink. It is a funeral home now. We all lived a Southern Gothic children's book.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My grandpa lived in the First District area of Dixie County, FL. Near where State Road 349 and County Road 351 meet. I spent a lot of time there as a kid. Roaming over unplanted fields. Tossing maypops against the side of a sun-bleached barn. Chickens roamed freely over his land. Mornings began with a hunt to find eggs for breakfast. Every day was Easter back then. With sand and snakes.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“As I wrote at Lake City Community College in the mid-90s there were a great many things I could only discuss with the help of literary devices – allusion, allegory, metaphor. And now... I'm just like... "Well, stepdad drank himself to death." May you all find a way to write what you now cannot write.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“On a walk down a remote 13th street I discovered a group of young teens with bell, book, and candle engaged in some manner of witchery. As I approached they fell silent. Apparently the possibility of a successful summoning was more terrifying than the reality of being a bored teen in rural Florida.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Mythologist Joseph Campbell once spent 5 years living in a shack in rural New York where he read 9 hours a day. I did something similar as I was in middle school but I suspect Campbell read much better books. Most of my books were acquired at the flea market in Chiefland, FL where a hoarse voiced lady sold musty paperbacks 5 for $1.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“When I was a kid an older guy sat out front of a gas station in Old Town, FL. His favorite story involved roughing up a couple of guys because "you could tell they weren't from around here." The gruesome details were implied as he'd pull out a straight razor and a plastic bag containing Red Devil lye. "Deliverance", the end of "Easy Rider", and every "wrong turn" horror movie would later make more sense because of those childhood stops for gas and a Yoo-hoo.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“I grew up in a swamp. All who visit see the savage beauty of the place. Those who stay see more. A deep connection. Roots that have grown together for generations. Once as a teen I went with family to a fish fry and sing at Scrub Creek Baptist Church off County Road 351. There a teen girl was very friendly until told to stop. We were cousins. She stomped away – "Is everyone here my DAMN cousin?!" Yes, and we are blessed.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“I've been invited to events at a number of private clubs over the years. Luncheons and Dinners in exclusive spaces. Award ceremonies at the Country Club. Boasts of "...since 1890." Bland chicken. Dull conversation. People pay a lot of money to be bored.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“In the 80s a Tennessee cousin decided he wanted to be a pro-wrestler. There was no real need to train or prepare back then. They just had him arrive a bit early to learn all he needed to know. After showing him a few tricks to sell the action he was handed a fake blood capsule. Fans liked to see the match end in blood. But that cousin was there to fight. Wrestling was real. The bell rang and punches were thrown. "Dirty" Dick Slater split my cousin's head open with an elbow. The match ended in blood as the crowd cheered. Anything can be real for a single night.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Southern is a design element these days. A large craft market exists for this Decorative Southernness. Framed art and throw pillows saying – "I Love You Like Biscuits and Gravy" and "Bless Your Heart!" But I've yet to see a "You Don't Look Like You're From Around Here" dish towel. This was the phrase I heard most growing up in small town Florida.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“We live in poetry and share those experiences in prose. It'll always be hard to trust a person who finds the word "sunset" adequate here.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My grandmother used to complain about anything decorated with a skull. Said it was evil. This mostly stopped as I reminded her of the skull inside her own head.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Our car wasn't legal. So we took the backroads to church. Sunday morning. Sunday night. Down those limerock roads. Doing crimes for Jesus.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“I saw a teen couple with a baby on the way at a flea market. Picking out their Engagement Knives. With a table of fantasy daggers. They were having a hard time. Fire Dragon? Ice Tiger? "We have to get this right!" And maybe they did.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Cold nights meant long lines. At a rusty tank marked K-Oil. Buying kerosene for your heater. Fumes would fill your house. Scenting all inside. You kept yourself warm. Then headed to school smelling poor.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Old maps make sense to me. With their strange collections of obscure landmarks. It's how we all got around when young. An hour to Gainesville. Turn off where they have the livestock fair. Then past an airport owned by my stepdad's family. A Rotunda. Tiny Horses. Dani's house. Jonesville didn't have much back then. Rosie's Bar and a Lil' Champ. Still when we saw the sign we knew we were close. "HAY!" Screamed by a face on the side of a store. We'd all yell it as we passed. For good luck. Later that sign was stolen. This created suspicions. Some asked if we had taken it. No. But we should have.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My new apartment came with a Baby Shrine. In the closet of a second bedroom. Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn" filling an entire shelf. Piles of rattles and dozens of bibs. Too much to describe in just six words. I invited a cute neighbor over to see. It wasn't a very good icebreaker. But young guys only get so smooth.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“My great-grandfather Delmar Thomas is buried beside his wife Lula now. Mount Horeb Cemetery near Bell, FL. As a kid I fell into a fire ant mound. Delmar rescued me. I cried. Covered in bites. He just laughed. Told me that is how you learn. This is what I learned.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“Work brought my family to Tennessee. I was just a kid. We lived in a green house off Old McClure Road. A big mimosa tree in the yard. Fern-like leaves and summer blooms. It reminded me of Florida. The mimosa was an invasive species there. State wanted them cut down. But we left ours alone. A tree growing where it should not be. Like my family. We were invasive too.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“During my 4th grade year the National Park Service announced an essay contest about the importance of parks. I was inspired by some now forgotten prize to begin writing with this contest. It seemed progress was being made as I declared that "Parks are like old photos" only to be asked to clarify – "How exactly are parks like old photos?" This question created a case of Writer's Block that extended through the essay contest deadline. Lewis Carroll was content with leaving us with "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" but I kept working on my answer. How are parks like old photos? You'll know when they are gone.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“The flea market looked like an old chicken coop. All rusted wire and weathered wood. A few scattered tables under a tin roof. One table was covered in old paperbacks. We don't need a word for "old book smell" to appreciate it. The lady there sat in a plastic lawn chair and slowly ate a sandwich. A title caught our eye. How much? A dollar. But she wasn't sure if she wanted to sell it. We left frustrated. Some books are not for sale.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“A hurricane delayed our meeting. First date force majeure. Online late one night we rescheduled – "Right now! As-is!" Sleep pants and t-shirts were good enough for Waffle House. Over coffee and pie we said the same sorts things we had sent as instant messages. To a person not a screen name. After she gave me the tour. Her cat's old collar on the rear-view mirror. A place where graffiti was allowed. The Slab by the river. Places where the young could be young. She stopped for cigarettes. The cashier had dirt on her face and ate an onion like an apple. We pretended not to notice. It only seemed polite.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“The blackjack oak is a hard tree. I chopped ours down. Sitting to the side of our wooded acre. Standing 20-feet tall. The ax was old. Older than I was at the time. A weathered handle hurt the hands. A rusty head barely cut. Chipped away at the tree. Over hours. Over days. And the tree fell. A creak. A crack. A soft thud on sandy ground. My blistered hands dropped the ax. Tired legs limped away. Summers were long then. And trees fell.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“When young I'd visit my aunt in small town Tennessee. Her place was carved into the side of a steep ridge. All red mud and gravel. The driveway was too steep for most. You just parked at the bottom and struggled up to the front door. You really had to want to visit. The closest anything was a truck stop off I-75. Near where fog caused a 99 car crash. We went there to eat biscuits and gravy. Wash it down with whole milk. Prostitutes advertised by CB. They found a dead trucker in a restroom once. No one seemed surprised. There was a rigged Coin Pusher machine. Elvira Pinball. I set the high score. Then returned to Florida. Where teachers asked me to write about my summer.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“When I first started dual enrollment at Lake City Community College you could print in the library for free. I printed whole books. Like James Legge's 1891 "Tao Te Ching" translation. He was to parentheses what Emily Dickinson was to the Em Dash. "To know and yet (think) we do not know is the highest (at­tain­ment); not to know (and yet think) we do know is a dis­ease." I'd sit around listening to records as their dot matrix printer whirred. Slowly printing a book from the 6th century BCE. They had those hard blue plastic headphones. Your ears would ache. But Rimsky-Korsakov was pretty metal. Herbert Benson's "The Relaxation Response" had me picking "ZOOM" as my meditation mantra. Reading Vonnegut with his nonlinear narrative. Books will often have Acknowledgments. A page or two. Things that helped you. What matters. Everything I write is an Acknowledgment. What matters. And I've printed whole books.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale

“When I was in high school the library was open before classes and during lunch. You could be in the library to read or check out books. Despite this the sidewalk leading to the library was a "restricted zone" and if you were seen on it you'd be sent to the principal. Paddling was the usual penalty even if you were 18 or older. Once I was inside reading the recently released Maus. A group of guys seated at a nearby table made sure I knew they thought comics were "baby stuff." Even the harsh Holocaust memoir of Maus. Since new books could not be checked out I returned the next morning to finish reading. Maus had been torn in half. It was later discarded. They never purchased another copy as I was in school. Casual cruelty has always been the point.”
― Damon Thomas, Some Books Are Not For Sale