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Upon my word, sir, your hope is a rather extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make ME happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation. ↗
A fi artist, în ochii lui însemna înainte de toate să fii supus. Supus unor mesaje misterioase, imprevizibile, care, în lipsa de ceva mai bun și în absența oricărei credințe religioase, se cuveneau calificate drept intuiții; niște mesaje poruncitoare, care se afirmau într-o manieră imperioasă, categorică, fără a-ți lăsa nici cea mai mică posibilitate de a te sustrage - sau doar cu riscul de a-ți pierde orice noțiune de integritate și de respect față de tine însuți. ↗
I should add, however, that, particularly on the occasion of Samhain, bonfires were lit with the express intention of scaring away the demonic forces of winter, and we know that, at Bealltainn in Scotland, offerings of baked custard were made within the last hundred and seventy years to the eponymous spirits of wild animals which were particularly prone to prey upon the flocks - the eagle, the crow, and the fox, among others. Indeed, at these seasons all supernatural beings were held in peculiar dread. It seems by no means improbable that these circumstances reveal conditions arising out of a later solar pagan worship in respect of which the cult of fairy was relatively greatly more ancient, and perhaps held to be somewhat inimical. ↗
Nothing, again, could be more prosaic and impenetrable than the domestic energies of Miss Diana Duke. But Innocent had somehow blundered on the discovery that her thrifty dressmaking went with a considerable feminine care for dress--the one feminine thing that had never failed her solitary self-respect. In consequence Smith pestered her with a theory (which he really seemed to take seriously) that ladies might combine economy with magnificence if they would draw light chalk patterns on a plain dress and then dust them off again. He set up "Smith's Lightning Dressmaking Company," with two screens, a cardboard placard, and box of bright soft crayons; and Miss Diana actually threw him an abandoned black overall or working dress on which to exercise the talents of a modiste. He promptly produced for her a garment aflame with red and gold sunflowers; she held it up an instant to her shoulders, and looked like an empress. And Arthur Inglewood, some hours afterwards cleaning his bicycle (with his usual air of being inextricably hidden in it), glanced up; and his hot face grew hotter, for Diana stood laughing for one flash in the doorway, and her dark robe was rich with the green and purple of great decorative peacocks, like a secret garden in the "Arabian Nights." A pang too swift to be named pain or pleasure went through his heart like an old-world rapier. He remembered how pretty he thought her years ago, when he was ready to fall in love with anybody; but it was like remembering a worship of some Babylonian princess in some previous existence. At his next glimpse of her (and he caught himself awaiting it) the purple and green chalk was dusted off, and she went by quickly in her working clothes. ↗
#love
How long were you standing there?" "Long enough to know you will be leaving soon. I thought I should speak to you. I didn't think you would come to tell me. Would you have?" "No. I wouldn't have expected you to care. You followed me?" "Like a lovesick swain. Wherever you go, there am I. Haven't you noticed these past weeks?" "I have seen you drinking and mocking with your jaded friends and your latest paramour on your arms. Or is it still Castlemaine? Have you no self-respect?" "No. None." He shrugged. "Love is war, and feigned disinterest my armor. You wear yours too, love. It is sad I know. ↗
A jolt of rage now forced him into her face, their noses almost touching. At once she was the one pulling back. “Is this yours and Fricker’s little game, Geline? To what purpose? Why not keep to the truth? It’s disgusting enough.” His voice was ragged with fury. “Why make up lies when it’s so unnecessary? I was a gambler, a prodigious drinker. I whored my way through most of London’s lower echelons. I am profoundly fortunate not to be riddled with disease.” Her mouth crimped with distaste. “Yes, indeed. Don’t want to mention that, do we? There’s a price to be paid for treating this vessel,” he tapped his chest, “without respect. As to that, we’ve both been fortunate. ↗
Property breeds lawyers, I said, forbearing to add a belief that unfortunately property now seemed the only thing palpable enough to demand the respect of governments, and perhaps was the generating clout against encroachments on the spiritual protections for speech, assembly, and so on. It might turn out that without the right to possess we are not sure we really have the right to speak and to be. ↗
I wonder where he lies. Wedged under a rock, with a thousand small mouths already sucking on his spongy flesh. Or floating still, on and down, on and down, to wider, calmer reaches of the river. I see them gathering: the drowned, the shot. Their hands float out to touch each other, fingertip to fingertip. In a day, two days, they will glide on, a funeral flotilla, past the unfinished white dome rising out of its scaffolds on a muddy hill in Washington. Will the citizens recognize them, the brave fallen, and uncover in a gesture of respect? Or will they turn away, disgusted by the bloated mass of human rot? ↗
