This novel by Elizabeth McCracken is a story about freaks and how on the inside they’re like the rest of us. It has many good parts. Here’s one:
“It pains me to say this,” he told me, “but I’m not susceptible to love. Probably I’m immune.” He sighed. “That sounds so pessimistic.”
“Why are you immune?” I asked.
He took me by the hand and stroked my knuckles. “Well, people become immune to love like they become immune to any disease. Either they had it bad early in life, like chicken pox, and that’s that; or they keep getting exposed to it in little doses and build up an immunity; or somehow they just don’t catch it, something in ’em is born resistant. I’m the last type. I’m immune to love and poison ivy.”
Here are some other sections I underlined:
I was bitter only insofar as people made me
“She’s pretty,” I said, which was what I said as soon as I could about any pretty girl. I wanted people to know I saw it, too.
Oscar was a good New Englander, of course: once upon a time we were all of the country, and suddenly two hundred years later there’s this coarse wollen thing stuck to our back calling itself the United States.
Fire is a speed-reader, which is why the ignorant burn books: fire races through the pages, takes care of all the knowledge, and never bores you with a summary.
Nehaveigur 