Words matter. These are the best Jonathan Raban Quotes, and they’re great for sharing with your friends.
Seattle is a liberal city, its politics not so much blue (in the American, not the British, sense) as deep ultramarine, and its manners are studiously polite.
The trouble with ghostwriting is that it raises the issue of whether the president is in a state of diminished responsibility for what he says. Does he actually grasp the implications of the words he speaks?
At night, what you see is a city, because all you see is lights. By day, it doesn’t look like a city at all. The trees out-number the houses. And that’s completely typical of Seattle. You can’t quite tell: is it a city, is it a suburb, is the forest growing back?
Because Washington state now votes by mail, elections here tend to play out, at an agonizingly slow speed, over many days and, sometimes, weeks.
When I want an opinion, I’ll get it from my peers – from men of vision, like our great railroad builders… Stanford, Huntington, Dinsmore… fellows with imaginations broad enough to span the continent.
No president has come near to rivaling Lincoln as a writer.
Simply as a writer of books I’m thrilled and proud that Seattle should have raised, on a public vote, sufficient money to build a central library, and moreover to rebuild every other library in the city: 28 of them.
In an underdeveloped country don’t drink the water. In a developed country don’t breathe the air.
Critics? Don’t talk to me of critics! You think some jackanapes journalist, his soul eaten away by the maggots of jealousy and failure, has anything worthwhile to say of art? I don’t.
Seattle was built out on pilings over the sea, and at high tide the whole city seemed to come afloat like a ship lifting free from a mud berth and swaying in its chains.
The north-south line of ‘the mountains,’ meaning the Cascade Range, forty miles east of Seattle, is a rigid political frontier.
‘Rage’ is the word that most often attaches itself to the Tea Party movement, and it’s true that, from the outside looking in, their public demonstrations appear to be more enraged than any political events in America since the race riots and anti-war protests of the 1960s.
Interstate highways dull the reality of place and distance almost as effectively as jetliners do: I loathe their scary monotony.
Inaugurals conventionally start with a history lesson and finish with a prayer.
Seattle is this curious liberal ‘island.’
Lincoln, steeped in the Bible and Shakespeare, set an impossibly high bar for presidential prose.
Democrats inhabit the low shores of Puget Sound, mostly on its eastern side, in a ragged trail of port-cities that stretches from Bellingham, close to the Canadian border, through Everett, Seattle, and Tacoma, to Olympia, the state capital, at the southern end of the sound.
‘Dreams From My Father’ reveals more about Obama than is usually known about political leaders until after they’re dead. Perhaps more than it intends, it shows his mind working, in real time, sentence by sentence, in what feels like a private audience with the reader.
