Tonight I started reading Charles Portis’ The Dog of the South on the subway. I scandalized the hipsters by laughing out loud several times and snorting at least once. (You’re not supposed to show genuine emotion on the L train, unless you’re on drugs and it’s after 11 p.m.)
I’m only forty pages in, but I’ve already found a dozen hilarious and quotable passages. Here’s one:
He struck me as one of these country birds who, one second after meeting you, will start telling of some bestial escapade involving violence or sex or both, or who might in the same chatty way want to talk about Christ’s Kingdom on Earth. It can go either way with those fellows and you need to be ready.