Sometimes when reading, one comes across something that is truly inspiring; a character, a sentence, a phrase, something that is notably remarkable.
I have found one of these gems.
The novel is called I Need to Love, though it was originally titled Circles, written by B. H. Friedman, published by Macfadden Books in 1963*.
This passage is taken from page 13:
“Snipping carefully, he wondered how much time he had devoted to this moustache, this strangely anonymous moustache. The hair over his lip was strong and alive and regular, unlike that on top of his head. The moustache could have been anybody’s: that of a villain, if he had encouraged its silky smoothness; or that of a hero, if he had roughed the hair into attitudes of strength. Or he might have trained it to suggest any of several kinds of clown: an arty clown like Dali, or a sad clown like Chaplin, or a boisterous clown like Jerry Colonna. A moustache makes any role possible. He might have been a tragedian, with a young introspective moustache like Hamlet’s. He might have chosen a journalist’s moustache (inky), or a doctor’s (compassionate), or a lawyer’s (clever and well-trimmed). He had chosen none of these, rejected them all, and a hundred others. His was a profession without a moustache. The art-dealer has no moustache. Lobelle smiled and watched the moustache follow the contours of that smile, spreading out out to the points on either side where the smile broke against his cheeks.”
I’m fairly certain that word has lost all meaning to me in typing it that many times.
Also, my spellcheck wants it to be “mustache”, but that’s not what’s on the page!
*This is a pulp fiction novel I received from a hitchiker I picked up in Canada.