Billboards, billboards, drink this, eat that, use all manner of things, everyone, the best, the cheapest, the purest and most satisfying of all their available counterparts. Red lights flicker on every horizon, airplanes beware; cars flash by, more lights. Workers repair the gas main. Signs, signs, lights, lights, streets, streets.
(Neal Cassady (1926-1968), U.S. beat hero. "Leaving LA by Train at Night, High ...," The First Third and Other Writings (1971).)
[It is possible] that the race of red men ... will, before many generations, be remembered only as a strange, weird, dream-like specter, which has passed once before the eyes of men, but had departed forever.
(James A. Garfield (1831-1881), U.S. president. To J.D. Cox, August 6, 1870. Garfield, ch. 14, Allen Peskin (1978).)
To many women marriage is only this. It is merely a physical change impinging on their ordinary nature, leaving their mentality untouched, their self-possession intact. They are not burnt by even the red fire of physical passionfar less by the white fire of love.
(Mary Webb (1881-1927), British novelist. The Golden Arrow, ch. 18 (1916).)
One encounters very capable fathers abashed by their piano-playing daughters. Three measures of Schumann make them red with embarrassment.
(Alfred Döblin (1878-1957), German-Jewish novelist, physician. Trans. by David Dollenmayer. "The Spirit of the Naturalistic Age," 1924, Works on Aesthetics, Poetics and Literature, ed. Erich Kleinschmidt (1989).)
Perhaps the old monks were right when they tried to root love out; perhaps the poets are right when they try to water it. It is a blood-red flower, with the colour of sin; but there is always the scent of a god about it.
(Olive Schreiner (1855-1920), South African writer, feminist. The Story of an African Farm, pt. 2, ch. 8 (1883).)