Reading through Flavorwire’s recent list of The 25 Greatest Epigraphs in Literature, and being generally in the habit of stealing, I got to thinking: where else might epigraphs be of use? Traditionally, they help establish the tone of a book or introduce the reader to its main ideas. And aren’t there countless inaugural moments in any given day, the brief beginnings of some larger task, that could benefit from a quick, pithy introduction?

So I took a couple of my favorite epigraphs from Flavorwire’s list and came up with some unexpected places I’d like to find them.

”When we are not sure, we are alive.” —Graham Greene
(from Reality Hunger by David Shields)

I’m inclined to start tagging this one everywhere I go. Imagine finding this quote stamped on your baby’s diaper. Or on that unopened bottle of pig’s feet you that keeps staring at you from the depths of the fridge. What about on a subway map? Or on the entrance to the subway, replacing those uninspiring indications of Uptown/Downtown? How could strategically placing this quote around town not inspire adventure?

“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” —G.K. Chesterson
(from Coraline by Neil Gaiman)

I want this on my next tube of toothpaste. Anything hygienic or related to sanitation. Is my new fantasy to have Mr. Clean whisper this in my ear as I scour the bathtub? Maybe it is. Maybe I have a problem with cleaning products. It’s still a good idea.

”No one knows how to love anybody’s trouble.” —Frank Stanford
(from Look! Look! Feathers by Mike Young)

Picture this written above the entrance to your favorite bar. The whole “everybody knows your name” Cheers vibe is so 1987. And while young drinkers might get nostalgic because Cheers was was the only option in your parents' cable-free househould, the drinking scene has gone way more toward an honest acceptance of degradation and defeat. Plus, if this is posted out front, the bouncers can do whatever they want to you.

“We fill pre-existing forms and when we fill them we change them and are changed.” —Frank Bidart, “Borges and I”
(from The Pale King by David Foster Wallace)

This might be so totally obvious, but...ice cube trays! How delightful would it be to sip highballs full of Borges-inscribed ice cubes and then dance around with Buddhist-like glee! Interacting with the universe! And science! Because of the whole liquid-into-solid situation!

“Behind every great fortune there is a crime.” —Balzac
(from The Godfather by Mario Puzo)

Okay. This one I can’t really justify in any way other than to tell you I feel it in my gut. Peanut Butter. Maybe it’s something about the lush extravagance in peanut butter, its silky delight and its decadent linger in the mouth. But really, how do you feel when you sneak into the fridge at night and spoon some up? Like a criminal.

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How to foster writing talent? Providing writers with a tax break could be a good start.

Especially considering that people aren't buying books to read them any more.

Maybe more people should publish their dream journals. Henry Miller and Anais Nin certainly approve.

Then again, some nightmares are too real to ever be forgotten, at least to Brian Williams.

Perhaps if Lana del Ray had gone anonymous, things would have turned out better for her.

Or... or... or... or...

Or maybe people should stop trying to ban books and take a minute to actually read them.

If they did, maybe we wouldn't run the risk of another blackout.

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A New York Times review of Would It Kill You To Stop Doing That?, a new book on manners by Henry Alford, got me thinking about how much of my social grace I’ve gleaned from works of fiction. Beyond the more obvious social dramas of Austen or Fitzgerald, books can provide useful advice on how to act in certain situations—and warn of the consequences when certain behaviors are found undesirable.

I figured, if James could look to literature to gain a little perspective on zoophiles, I could consult the bookshelf to learn how to behave. What follows is a brief guide to help you get started.

• All little children should be given Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Sure, it’s a little violent, but unimaginable horror never killed an eight year-old. The lesson here is embodied in the boy: at the end of days, walking around starving, the little guy hardly ever complains (or talks, for that matter), and he's spectacularly polite and loving towards his father. Does your kid whine about not getting the candy cereal at the grocery store? Hand him or her a copy. Maybe read it at night before they go to bed. See what happens.
• Do you know any sexual deviants who just need to shut up about it already? Give them a copy of Mary Gaitskill’s Bad Behavior. One of the beauties of Gaitskill’s short stories is how remarkably calm everybody is about how messed up their sex is. As uncomfortable and sometimes harmful as her characters can be, Gaitskill narrates in a way that shuts down all the annoying, gossipy shock value and allows the perverts to be precisely what they are: just humans.
• Even though it was published way back in 1962, I think Another Country by James Baldwin should be handed out to every white, liberal-leaning heterosexual along with their organic oats and fair trade coffee. Have you ever referred to someone else’s partner as their "roommate"? Do you decorate with the aim of exhibiting your knowledge of cultural difference? Maybe you’re super well-intentioned but don’t understand what all the fuss is about. Mr. Baldwin can tell you.
• Is there anything worse than the plethora of man-children running around today? Guys in their twenties and thirties shirking the responsibilities of career, family, haircuts, bathing. Maybe it’s time for a good look at one of the prototypes of the modern man-child: Rabbit, Run by John Updike. The book should be read not to shore up men's juvenile mindsets, but to show them that their very special feelings of entrapment and angst are anything but new. Besides, until you can narrate your life at the level of Updike’s prose, your angst won’t even get you any attention.

But the best reason to pick up a book of fiction? It might not even be the wisdom between the covers, but that your chances of fucking up decrease if your nose is stuck in one.

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“Lauren Greenfield's film The Queen of Versailles … has generated alawsuit in advance of its opening-night premiere. [The] plaintiff distinguished himself by not suing over the film, but over the online proliferation of the associated press release. Specifically, the complaint stems from the film's blurb contained in the announcement of the festival's selections. The festival press release describes the film as showing a journey of 'rags to riches to rags.' It's those last 'rags'...that have infuriated plaintiff David Siegel.”—IndieWire, 12 Jan, 2012, Park City, Utah

“What was really affecting was the tenderness and earnestness of the poor people, who, in spite of the taxes with which they are overwhelmed, were transported with joy at seeing us. When we went to walk in the Tuileries, there was so vast a crowd that we were three-quarters of an hour without being able to move either forward or backward. The dauphin and I gave repeated orders to the Guards not to beat any one, which had a very good effect. Such excellent order was kept the whole day that, in spite of the enormous crowd which followed us everywhere, not a person was hurt. When we returned from our walk we went up to an open terrace and stayed there half an hour. I cannot describe to you, my dear mamma, the transports of joy and affection which every one exhibited towards us. Before we withdrew we kissed our hands to the people, which gave them great pleasure. What a happy thing it is for persons in our rank to gain the love of a whole nation so cheaply.”—Marie Antoinette, Letter to Marie Terèse, 14 June, 1770, Versailles, France

“One time, we flew commercial for some reason, and one of the younger kids asked, 'Mommy, what are all these strangers doing on our plane?' They are used to traveling on our private jet.”—Jacqueline Siegel, interviewed by Jana Waring in Playground Magazine, 19 March, 2009, Isleworth, Florida

Let Me Recite What History Teaches (LMRWHT) is a weekly column that flashes the lavalamp, gaslight, candlelight, campfire, torch, sometimes even the starlight of the past on something that is happening now. The form of the column strives to recover what might be best about the “wide-eyed presentation of mere facts.” Each week you will find here some citational constellation, offered with astonishment and without comment, that can serve as an end in itself, or an occasion for further thought or writing. The title is taken from the last line of Gertrude Stein’s poem “If I Told Him (A Completed Portrait of Picasso)."

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1. “Whoever causes hurt by corrosive substance shall be punished with imprisonment for life or imprisonment of either description which shall not be less than fourteen years with a minimum fine of Rs1 million.” —Acid Control and Acid Crime Prevention Act, amendment to the Pakistan Penal Code, passed unanimously in the Pakistan Senate on Dec 12, 2011.

2. "A person, for example, who mixes a deleterious potion, and places it on the table of another; a person who conceals a scythe in the grass on which another is in the habit of walking; a person who digs a pit in a public path, intending that another may fall into it, may cause serious hurt, and may be justly punished for causing such hurt; but they cannot, without extreme violence to language, be said to have committed assaults. We propose to designate all pain, disease, and infirmity, by the name of hurt. We have found it very difficult to draw a line between those bodily hurts which are serious and those which are slight. To draw such a line with perfect accuracy is, indeed, absolutely impossible, but it is far better that such a line should be drawn….We have, therefore, designated certain kinds of hurt as grievous. We have given this name to emasculation…” —Annotated Indian Penal Code, 1838.

3. “Le Verbeau hit Marie Champion right on her breasts, but burned his eye, because acid is not a precision weapon.” —Félix Fénéon, Novels in Three Lines, 1906. 

Let Me Recite What History Teaches (LMRWHT) is a weekly column that flashes the lavalamp, gaslight, candlelight, campfire, torch, sometimes even the starlight of the past on something that is happening now. The form of the column strives to recover what might be best about the “wide-eyed presentation of mere facts.” Each week you will find here some citational constellation, offered with astonishment, that can serve as an end in itself, or an occasion for further thought or writing. The title is taken from the last line of Stein’s poem “If I Told Him (A Completed Portrait of Picasso)"

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