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Book: Telegraph Avenue
Quotes of Book: Telegraph Avenue

Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
The little boy had wandered away from his mother, tacking across the grass toward the play structure. His mother watched him go, proud, tickled, unaware that every time they toddled away from you, they came back a little different, ten seconds older and nearer to the day when they left you for good. Pearl divers in training, staying under a few seconds longer every time.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
Black people live their whole lives in a fantasy world, it's just not their fantasy.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
Bird of Wide Experience I
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
What kind of heaven is that, you can't have your records?
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
Because you know, truth is, I don't give a shit about some scratched-up vinyl Rahsaan Kirk, Ornette Coleman sound-like-a-goose-trying-to-fuck-a-bicycle bootleg pressing from the rare Paris concert of 1967. I spend five minutes listening to that, I'm like to want to slap somebody. I"
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
series you followed. Not even if you died. Alive or dead or a thousand miles distant, you were always going to be on the hook for work that was neither a procedure nor a series of steps but, rather, something that demanded your full, constant attention without necessarily calling on you to do, perform, or say anything at all.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
You never would get through to the end of being a father, no matter where you stored your mind or how many steps in the
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
Most of all, he was tired of being a holdout, a sole survivor, the last coconut hanging on the last palm tree on the last little atoll in the path of the great wave of late-modern capitalism, waiting to be hammered flat."
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
Alcohol as helpful to the making of scapegoats as mud to the shaping of golems.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
He didn't stop when they got there, though. Just slowed down, in his drag-ass, baby-smelling, style-free Subaru wagon, long enough to check out a banner announcing, in baseball-jersey script, the imminent opening for business, between the United Federation of Donuts and the King of Bling, of a trading card store called Mr. Nostalgia's Neighborhood. Beyond the fourth grade or so, Archy had never taken much interest in baseball cards, but he could feel the underlying vibe of that particular madness. Although he knew he would never be able to set foot in that building again without breaking his heart, he understood that the new operation held promise, and in principle, at least, he approved. The merchandise was not the thing, and neither, for that matter, was the nostalgia. It was all about the neighborhood, that space where common sorrow could be drowned in common passion as the talk grew ever more scholarly and wild.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
I love the predictions of a man right before his first child is born," Flowers said. "They're like little snowflakes. Right before the sun comes blazing out the clouds and melts those happy dreams away.
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Michael Chabon _ Telegraph Avenue
That was how troubles arrived, mourners rushing the bar at a wake. Though they came in funereal flocks, they could be dismissed only one at a time, and that was how she would have to proceed.
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