A Quote by Mary Wesley

It seemed sensible to move to a market town where I could walk everywhere. — © Mary Wesley
It seemed sensible to move to a market town where I could walk everywhere.
My father's body lies in a stone tomb high on a hill. People walk by, pause, think their own thoughts about him and move on, back to their own lives. I can never move on. He is everywhere.
I figured that if anyone could be wildly popular in one town, then that could be replicated everywhere, all you have to do is get the word out.
The need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the entire surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere. The bourgeoisie has, through its exploitation of the world market, given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. To the great chagrin of reactionaries, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood.
In our story logic which we're making up, if we're saying he's alive, then like a quadriplegic who's in bed he can move his head and shoulders, but he can't move his arms. If he could just turn on that power to his legs and arms, the nerves could get through and he could walk.
The really nice thing about the town of Hua Hin - and Thailand generally - is that it's so safe. You can walk around the night market, for example, with complete confidence.
Everywhere I go, I feel the city out. I walk around and get there early, and I go off the cuff with whatever's going on in town.
I don't want to be the crazy showbiz family. When I walk into the PTA meetings with my sensible flat shoes and my sensible short wig, I do not look crazy.
An old market had stood there until I'd been about six years old, when the authorities had renamed it the Olde Market, destroyed it, and built a new market devoted to selling T-shirts and other objects with pictures of the old market. Meanwhile, the people who had operated the little stalls in the old market had gone elsewhere and set up a thing on the edge of town that was now called the New Market even though it was actually the old market.
Vowels were something else. He didn't like them and they didn't like him. There were only five of them, but they seemed to be everywhere. Why, you could go through twenty words without bumping into some of the shyer consonants, but it seemed as if you couldn't tiptoe past a syllable without waking up a vowel. Consonants, you know pretty much where you stood, but you could never trust a vowel.
We could park the van and walk to town, find cheapest bottle of wine that we could find. And talk about the road behind, how getting lost is not a waste of time.
A plague of snow, fluffy and dry before it hardens and grips the trees, the walls, and the cars parked haphazardly everywhere. When I walk to the little market a few blocks away, it feels like a test of endurance.
A town is a thing like a colonial animal. A town has a nervous system and a head and shoulders and feet. A town is a thing separate from all other towns alike. And a town has a whole emotion. How news travels through a town is a mystery not easily to be solved. News seems to move faster than small boys can scramble and dart to tell it, faster than women can call it over the fences.
Let's say you want to do a job, and you want to be really successful. You want to rise really high in that career. But where you live, that job doesn't exist. Your town's too small. Or maybe the business is your town, but even if you reach the pinnacle there, because it's a small town, it's not nearly as high as you could go. If you're unwilling to move, well, that's all on you. That's a limitation you're placing on yourself. Now, that's fine if that's what makes you happy.
I'm looking at the window and can't understand why there are six hundred thousand SUVs here in this little town. No one can even move. Why doesn't everyone just get out and walk?
What makes most people comfortable is some sort of sense of nostalgia. I grew up in a small town, and I could count my friends on one hand, and I still live that way. I think I'll die in a small town. When I can't move my bones around a stage any more, you'll find me living in a place that's spread out and rural and spacious.
That's not free market when companies go out and move and sell back into America. No, that's the dumb market, O.K.? That's the dumb market.
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