Gabriel García Márquez book Chronicle of a Death Foretold
Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981), trans. Gregory Rabassa [Ballantine, 1984, ISBN 0-345-31002-0], p. 47
Coal Black Horse (2007)
Gabriel García Márquez book Chronicle of a Death Foretold
Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981), trans. Gregory Rabassa [Ballantine, 1984, ISBN 0-345-31002-0], p. 47
Marcus Aurelius book Meditations
XI, 15
Meditations (c. 121–180 AD), Book XI
Source: The Apology, Phaedo & Crito of Plato/Golden Sayings of Epictetus/Meditations of Marcus Aurelius
“While he smells like nectar, you smell like a goat.”
Julian (emperor) (331–363) Roman Emperor, philosopher and writer
As quoted in The Barbarian's Beverage: A History of Beer in Ancient Europe (2005) by Max Nelson, p. 28. In this epigram, Julian mocked the beer of the Germans and Celts as disgusting in comparison with wine.
General sources
Context: Who and from where are you Dionysus?
Since by the true Bacchus,
I do not recognize you; I know only the son of Zeus.
While he smells like nectar, you smell like a goat.
Can it be then that the Celts because of lack of grapes
Made you from cereals? Therefore one should call you
Demetrius, not Dionysus, rather wheat born and Bromus,
Not Bromius.
J. G. Ballard book Empire of the Sun
Empire of the Sun (1984)
Context: The two parachutes fell towards the burial mounds. Already a squad of Japanese soldiers in a truck with a steaming radiator sped along the perimeter road, on their way to kill the pilots. Jim wiped the dust from his Latin primer and waited for the rifle shots.
The halo of light which had emerged from the burning Mustang still lay over the creeks and paddies. For a few minutes the sun had drawn nearer to the earth, as if to scorch the death from the fields.
Jim grieved for these American pilots, who died in a tangle of their harnesses, within sight of a Japanese corporal with a Mauser and a single English boy hidden on the balcony of this ruined building. Yet their end reminded Jim of his own, about which he had thought in a clandestine way ever since his arrival at Lunghua.
He welcomed the air raids, the noise of the Mustangs as they swept over the camp, the smell of oil and cordite, the deaths of the pilots, and even the likelihood of his own death. Despite everything he knew he was worth nothing. He twisted his Latin primer, trembling with a secret hunger that the war would so eagerly satisfy.
“That diabolical deviant is smarter than he smells.”
Malcolm Azania book From the Notebooks of Dr. Brain
Source: From the Notebooks of Dr. Brain (2007), Chapter 11 “Self-Distraction is Self-Destruction” (p. 323)