June 20, 2013 § Leave a comment
The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful color, faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.”
Charles Dickens A Tale of Two Cities
June 7, 2013 § Leave a comment
“Commonly, in calm weather, for half a mile from the shore, where the bottom tinges it, the sea is green, or greenish, as are some ponds; then blue for many miles, often with purple tinges, bounded in the distance by a light almost silvery stripe; beyond which there is generally a dark-blue rim, like a mountain-ridge in the horizon, as if, like that, it owed its color to the intervening atmosphere”
Henry David Thoreau
June 3, 2013 § Leave a comment
One word: Hi!
Two words: June gloom.
Three words: A comedy day.
Four words: Pajama Sunday all day.
Five words: The Californians, Arrested Development, Anchorman
May 16, 2013 § Leave a comment
May 14, 2013 § Leave a comment
He smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced–or seemed to face–the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.
F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby)
April 17, 2013 § Leave a comment
What a strange thing love is!
Jane Austen (Emma)