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At this time he had no messages for anyone.

Lascelles Abercrombie

Not a single word. Winona was a notorious prig. Who would want any other kind of daughter? But in these fair laps we must leave King Arthur, who was never historical, but everything he did was true. The horizon is the straight bottom edge of a curtain arbitrarily and suddenly lowered upon a performance.

Forest gumption: A sense of space in the Forest of Dean

Then its pages dampened, took on the weight of the underlying depths, began to founder, and as I readied to return home, that plot which had diverted so many, was finally lost in darkness and distance. Berry, Frank Chris Andrews. At the edge of the Arab quarter the car, still loaded with people, made a wide U-turn and stopped; it was the end of the line.

The Martians were there—in the canal—reflected in the water. Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad.

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The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water …. Sorry I forgot to give you the mayonnaise. Then there are more and more endings: the sixth, the 53rd, the st, the 9,th ending, endings going faster and faster, more and more endings, faster and faster until this book is having , endings per second.

Walks in England: Exploring the Forest of Dean - Part One

Or, rather, let me be quiet in her memory—and in memory of me—for a little while. I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath, and hare-bells; listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

Burroughs, Naked Lunch He laughed. He did not care what she called herself as long as she went on living. And she would do that. No matter where she went, she would live. She would not leave him.

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Butler, Wild Seed Father McConnell says prayers help. Archibald Colquhoun. William Weaver. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate. Matthew Ward.

Forest of Dean History-Ruardean - Who Killed the Bears?

He knew what those jubilant crowds did not know but could have learned from books: that the plague bacillus never dies or disappears for good; that it can lie dormant for years and years in furniture and linen-chests; that it bides its time in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, and bookshelves; and that perhaps the day would come when, for the bane and the enlightening of men, it would rouse up its rats again and send them forth to die in a happy city.

Stuart Gilbert. Begin again!

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It all must be done over! Then starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat. Shining fragments of aquarium glass fell like snow around him. Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood; and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago; and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

So, into all the little settlements of quiet people, tidings of what their boys and girls are doing in the world bring refreshment; bring to the old, memories, and to the young, dreams. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.

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John Rutherford. Everyone is waiting for Father, who may, or may not, come home. What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or on a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell.

Me, I was part of the nastiness now. Far more a part of it than Rusty Regan was. He could lie quiet on his canopied bed with his bloodless hands folded on the sheet waiting. His heart was a brief uncertain murmur. His thoughts were as gray as ashes. And in little while, he too, like Rusty Regan would be sleeping the big sleep. On the way downtown I stopped at a bar and had a couple of double Scotches. All they did was make me think of Silver-Wig and I never saw her again. I never saw any of them again—except the cops.

No way has yet been invented to say goodbye to them. I will never come back, and if I do there will be nothing left, there will be nothing left but the headstones to record what has happened; there will really be nothing at all. Tony went back to school on Monday and Nailles—drugged—went off to work and everything was as wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful as it had been. But that is another tale, and as I said in the beginning, this is just a story meant to be read in bed in an old house on a rainy night.

There was the hum of bees, and the musky odor of pinks filled the air. Ralph Manheim. This is not the scene I dreamed of. Like much else nowadays I leave it feeling stupid, like a man who lost his way long ago but presses on along a road that may lead nowhere. Coetzee, Waiting for the Barbarians The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed sombre under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.

In the morning I saw the sons of Unamis happy and strong; and yet, before the night has come, have I lived to see the last warrior of the wise race of the Mohicans. Over the river a golden ray of sun came through the hosts of leaden rain clouds. Maybe I will go to Paris. Who knows? And since all along there had been too many ends to the story, and since they did not end anything, but only continued something, something not formed into any story, I needed an act of ceremony to end the story. My husband remained there some time after me to settle our affairs, and at first I had intended to go back to him, but at his desire I altered that resolution, and he is come over to England also, where we resolve to spend the remainder of our years in sincere penitence for the wicked lives we have lived.

In the end they had to carry me to the infirmary and feed me through plastic tubes. The most beguiling of the rumors has me living among beggars and syphilitics, performing good works, patron saint of all those men who hear the river-whistles sing the mysteries and who return to sleep in wine by the south wheel of the city.

It was the nightmare of real things, the fallen wonder of the world. Everything we need that is not food or love is here in the tabloid racks. The tales of the supernatural and extraterrestrial. The miracle vitamins, the cures for cancer, the remedies for obesity. The cults of the famous and the dead.

Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life. But I know that my dearest little pets are very pretty, and that my darling is very beautiful, and that my husband is very handsome, and that my guardian has the brightest and most benevolent face that ever was seen, and that they can very well do without much beauty in me—even supposing—. O Agnes, O my soul, so may thy face be by me when I close my life indeed; so may I, when realities are melting from me like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!

We shall sit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to see the ashes of our fires turn grey and cold. They went quietly down in the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed, and as they passed along in the sunshine and the shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the forward and the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar.

I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so, the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.

Edith Wharton

And Harry K. Thaw, having obtained his release from the insane asylum, marched annually at Newport in the Armistice Day parade. Doctorow, Ragtime Doctorow, Billy Bathgate Donleavy, The Ginger Man First one sheet, then another, blew off the table, until the floor was littered with them. But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life.