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By all means, let's show your father what a bad influence I've been on his little girl.” "He won't think that at all. He's always adored you for having rescued his fallen daughter.” "And his daughter? What does she think about it?” "She thinks that ..." Lucy paused and cast a swift glance over her head, "that you have been very remiss in failing to notice that she is standing right underneath a sprig of mistletoe." His laughter was soft and lazy, eliciting a delicious chill from the pit of her stomach. While he stared into her eyes, he reached up, plucked the mistletoe from the top of the doorframe, and slipped the small green sprig into his pocket. "For later," he said, and smiled at her. ↗
They had known each other intimately, as husband and wife, countless times, He had held her with tenderness and passion, but never with such rampant wildness. ↗
He whispered her name as if it were a love-word, and his mouth drifted through the tear tracks on her face. They would not yield their secrets. Oh, but love . . . Love was unvoiced and undenied. As they fitted together into one being, each movement was a new discovery, each second an eternity of emotion. Let it last, her heart beseeched the darkness silently. Let it last forever. ↗
The attention for bad literature is symptomatic: they pretends its the most normal thing in the world to fill an entire newspaper page with talk about a bad book, and good books are silenced to death. This mechanism is exactly the same formula as used in the Eurovision Songfestival: to present monoculture, and the proverbial hatred for that monoculture is only ritualistic, intended to give the reader the impression that the newspaper is on their side. Its the formula of entertainment: present things the reader can feel superior to. ↗
I am always hearing. . . the sound of a far off song. I do not exactly know where it is, or what it means; and I don't hear much of it, only the odour of its music, as it were, flitting across the great billows of the ocean outside this air in which I make such a storm; but what I do hear, is quite enough to make me able to bear the cry from the drowning ship. So it would you if you could hear it.' 'No it wouldn't,' returned Diamond stoutly. 'For they wouldn't hear the music of the far-away song; and if they did, it wouldn't do them any good. You see you and I are not going to be drowned, and so we might enjoy it.' 'But you have never heard the psalm, and you don't know what it is like. Somehow, I can't say how, it tells me that all is right; that it is coming to swallow up all the cries. . . . It wouldn't be the song it seems if it did not swallow up all their fear and pain too, and set them singing it themselves with all the rest. ↗
