A SENTENCE BY JOSEPH CONRAD
We live at the mercy of a malevolent word. Pithy, Joe, pithy.
We live at the mercy of a malevolent word. Pithy, Joe, pithy.
‘Why don’t you do something to help me?’ Will watching ‘March of the Wooden Soldiers’ today do?
To be feted is a good thing. To be fetid, not so much.
‘The day was brightening all about them as if a pink lamp had been given more wick.’ Ray takes a turn at describing dawn and does quite well, I must say.
‘Don’t tell me what I’m doing, I don’t want to know.’ Well, yes, yes, and yes. And thanks for the peacock in the snow and lots of other stuff.
The first light of dawn was green, and the sky filled with clouds, steam rising from dry ice. Ms. Stevens deals nicely with daybreak in her hippie commune book, Rancho Armadillo.
All children, except one, grow up. Well, yes. There you go. A pretty dang strong first sentence.
The loon hacked his way through the thick wall of entangled greenery and found Camelot abandoned, left to the tender mercies of the mole, the worm and the rusty broken stapler.
As the spectators drifted in, the drums began to beat, the hobby-horses to revolve, the showmen to shout, the marionettes to perform in their little theatre. Pretty good sentence, eh? Who’d guess it was part of Madame de Beaumont’s delightful 1756 version of ‘Beauty and the Beast’?