Like a storm-driven bird at night we fly out of Nowhere; for a moment our wings are seen in the light of the fire, and, lo! we are gone again into the Nowhere. That about sums it up, wouldn’t you agree? H., . to his friends, wrote one of my all time favorites, SHE. (who […]
In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. Way to put us native speakers to shame, Joe.
IT’S FUTILE TO PURSUE ANY SORT OF MEANINGFUL RELATIONSHIP WITH A SPIDER. THANKS A LOT, E.B. WHITE.
The place, with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance – all strewn with crumpled paper. Hank wrote brilliant short stories in the guise of fat dense novels. That there sentence what appears above you could find in ‘The Turn of the […]
not here and certainly not here so don’t bother suiting up
Love is not a hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. ‘Forsyte Saga’, anyone? Soames? Fleur? Susan Hampshire?
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
