"Travels With My Aunt" by Graham Greene

Chapter 7

http://books.google.com/books?id=qvSMuOv5n3YC&printsec=frontcover&dq=travels+with+my+aunt#v=onepage&q=&f=false

From a review of the film "North Face" by Roger Ebert

The movies have long been convinced themselves that any story can be improved by adding a romance. Not true. Any story can be improved by leaving out as much as you reasonably can.

From "August" by Bruno Schulz

IN JULY my father went to take the waters and left me, with my mother and elder brother, a prey to the blinding white heat of the summer days. Dizzy with light, we dipped into that enormous book of holidays, its pages blazing with sunshine and scented with the sweet melting pulp of golden pears. 

On those luminous mornings Adela returned from the market, like Pomona emerging from the flames of day, spilling from her basket the colourful beauty of the sun-the shiny pink cherries full of juice under their transparent skins, the mysterious black morellos that smelled so much better than they tasted; apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of long afternoons. And next to that pure poetry of fruit, she unloaded sides of meat with their keyboard of ribs swollen with energy and strength, and seaweeds of vegetables like dead octopuses and squids-the raw material of meals with a yet undefined taste, the vegetative and terrestrial ingredients of dinner, exuding a wild and rustic smell. 

The dark first floor apartment of the house in Market Square was shot through each day by the naked heat of summer: the silence of the shimmering streaks of air, the squares of brightness dreaming their intense dreams on the floor; the sound of a barrel-organ rising from the deepest golden vein of day; two or three bars of a chorus, played on a distant piano over and over again, melting in the sun on the white pavement, lost in the fire of high noon.

http://www.akirarabelais.com/v/brunoschulz/august.html

"Benjamin Franklin - A Life" by Loren Goodman

http://books.google.com/books?id=ZGalj0Kc9sMC&pg=PA57&lpg=PA57&dq=Benjamin+Franklin+-+A+life+loren+goodman&source=bl&ots=qx0IhDaIOq&sig=xA3CqbYy4Pw6EpZZe0czTIXke70&hl=en&ei=kpqFS9muKovCNbP3xTU&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CAkQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Benjamin%20Franklin%20-%20A%20life%20loren%20goodman&f=false

From "Famous Americans" by Loren Goodman

This is nature at its most breathtaking . . . serene yet magnificent.

From "The Only Traffic Signal on the Reservation Doesn't Flash Red Anymore" by Sherman Alexie"

"Go ahead," Adrian said. "Pull the trigger." I held a pistol to my temple. I was sober but wished I was drunk enough to pull the trigger.

"Go for it," Adrian said. "You chickenshit."

While I still held that pistol to my temple, I used my other hand to flip Adrian off. Then I made a fist with my third hand to gather a little bit of courage or stupidity, and wiped sweat from my forehead with my fourth hand.

"Here," Adrian said. "Give me the damn thing."

Adrian took the pistol, put the barrel in his mouth, smiled around the metal, and pulled the trigger. Then he cussed wildly, laughed, and spit out the BB.

"Are you dead yet?" I asked.

"Nope," he said. "Not yet. Give me another beer."

"Hey, we don't drink no more, remember? How about a Diet Pepsi?"

"That's right, enit? I forgot. Give me a Pepsi."

Adrian and I sat on the porch and watched the reservation. Nothing happened. From our chairs made rockers by unsteady legs, we could see that the only traffic signal on the reservation had stopped working.

"Hey, Victor," Adrian asked. "Now when did that thing quit flashing?"

"Don't know," I said.

It was summer. Hot. But we kept our shirts on to hide our beer bellies and chicken pock scars. At least, I wanted to hide my beer belly. I was a former basketball star fallen out of shape. It's always kind of sad when that happens. There's nothing more unattractive than a vain man, and that goes double for a Indian man.

The Children of Men

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0206634/

The only movie I've ever seen that had a subplot of a character's feet.