Patire Trist Quotes

From: The Crown of Telus
She opened her eyes, saw the crown sitting on her bedside table, and wished that it was all a dream. The crown of Trist was nothing special. It had no gemstones, no gold or silver filigree; instead it was simple, a metal circlet with four points and some inlay around a scratched and dented band.
"It's a working man's crown," she remembered her father holding the symbol of power out to her when she younger. "See the inlay? Three moons, one for each of our gods, over an oak which represents the mighty forests of the north, a shock of wheat for the Plainsmen to the south, a ship for the Gheltes to the west, and a hashap flower for the spice in the east. Nothing more. We don't need anymore."
Tears welled in her eyes. A working man's crown. Nothing fancy or bejeweled, a symbol of the power that guides the land and cares for its people.
This was going to be the first day she wore it as queen. ~ William Laws

As far as he could discover, there were no signs of spring. The decay that covered the surface of the mottled ground was not the kind in which life generates. Last year, he remembered, May had failed to quicken these soiled fields. It had taken all the brutality of July to torture a few green spikes through the exhausted dirt.
What the little park needed, even more than he did, was a drink. Neither alcohol nor rain would do. Tomorrow, in his column, he would ask Broken-hearted, Sick-of-it-all, Desperate, Disillusioned-with-tubercular-husband and the rest of his correspondents to come here and water the soil with their tears. Flowers would then spring up, flowers that smelled of feet.
"Ah, humanity ... " But he was heavy with shadow and the joke went into a dying fall. He trist to break its fall by laughing at himself. ~ Nathanael West

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance by force. Here, ~ Edgar Allan Poe

On the wall next to the door we'd entered through was a huge floor-to-ceiling bulletin/whiteboard combo and hanging from a thumbtack on the bulletin board amongst pictures and other various sorts of memorabilia was my bra. It'd been washed but it still had
a good many blotches of pink on it. If that wasn't shocking enough, the dialogue written over the last two weeks on the whiteboard pertaining to said bra certainly was. I'll include the copy just so you can truly appreciate what I'm dealing with here.
Tristan's Mom: What's this?
Tristan: A size 34B lace covered slingshot.
Jeff: Nice!
Tristan's Mom: Do I want to know?
Tristan: I don't know, do you?
Tristan's Mom: Not really. Are you planning on returning it or did you win some kind of prize?
Tristan: I plead the fifth.
Tristan's Dad: Well done son.
Jeff: Ditto!
Tristan's Mom: Don't encourage him.
Tristan: Gee, thanks Mom.
Tristan's Dad: Can't a father be proud of his only child?
Tristan's Mom: He doesn't need your help…obviously.
Tristan's Dad: That's because he takes after me.
Tristan: Was there anything else I can do for you two?
Tristan's Mom: Tell her I tried to get the stains out, but I'm afraid they set in before I got to it.
Tristan: I'm sure she'll appreciate your effort, but if I'm any judge (and I'd like to think I am) its
size has caused it to become obsolete and she needs to trade up.
Jeff: I'm so proud.
Trist ~ Jenn Cooksey