The Collected Works of George Moore: Confessions of a young man: avowalssubscribers only, 1923 |
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Beliebte Passagen
Seite 142 - I am on my death-bed; there is no possibility of my recovery. I write you expressly to tell you how happy I have been to be your contemporary, and to utter my last, my urgent prayer. Come back, my friend, to your literary labors.
Seite 173 - Below them, as they stood, the forest slid away in a sheet of blue-green for mile upon mile; below the forest was a village in its sprinkle of terraced fields and steep grazinggrounds; below the village they knew, though a thunderstorm worried and growled there for the moment, a pitch of twelve or fifteen hundred feet gave to the moist valley where the streams gather that are the mothers of young Sutluj. As usual, the lama had led Kim by cow-track and byroad, far from the main route along which Hurree...
Seite 395 - That some wretched farmers should refuse to starve, that I may not be deprived of my demi-tasse at Tortoni's, that I may not be forced to leave this beautiful retreat, my cat and my python — monstrous. And these wretched creatures will find moral support in England; they will find pity! Pity, that most vile of all virtues, has never been known to me.
Seite 394 - That some wretched farmers and miners should refuse to starve, that I may not be deprived of my demi-tasse at Tortoni's; that I may not be forced to leave this beautiful retreat [Paris], my cat and my python - monstrous.
Seite 173 - Above them, still enormously above them, earth towered away towards the snow-line, where from east to west across hundreds of miles, ruled as with a ruler, the last of the bold birches stopped. Above that, in scarps and blocks upheaved, the rocks strove to fight their heads above the white smother. Above these again, changeless since the world's beginning, but changing to every mood of sun and cloud, lay out the eternal snow.
Seite 396 - Injustice we worship; all that lifts us out of the miseries of life is the sublime fruit of injustice. Every immortal deed was an act of fearful injustice; the world of grandeur, of triumph, of courage, of lofty aspiration, was built up on injustice. Man would not be man but for injustice. Hail, therefore, to the thrice glorious virtue injustice! What care I that some millions of wretched Israelites died under Pharaoh's lash or Egypt's sun? It was well that they died that I might have the pyramids...
Seite 342 - The village maiden goes to her Faust ; the children of the nineteenth century go to you, O Baudelaire, and having tasted of your deadly delight all hope of repentance is vain. Flowers, beautiful in your sublime decay, I press you to my lips ; these northern * Surely the phrase is ill-considered, hurried ' my convalescence ' would express the author's meaning better.
Seite 442 - I think of Mr Stevenson as a consumptive youth weaving garlands of sad flowers with pale, weak hands, or leaning to a large plate-glass window, and scratching thereon exquisite profiles with a diamond pencil.
Seite 347 - I could not understand how anybody could bring himself to acknowledge the vulgar details of our vulgar age. But a new force was piling up behind the aesthetic screen, and it was soon to burst out. Moore was busy trying to write short stories apparently in the manner of Villiers' Contes Cruels, and poems, "Roses of Midnight," in what he believed to be the manner of Baudelaire.