There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.
Lovely.There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved.
And the creationists find this idea bleak?It's nothing special out of context, but within context, it's an audaciously optimistic anticipation of a post-borders world.Maybe it would make an interesting survey (what kind would be your decision) to examine the present and divide the onlookers into two groups: those whose eyes fell upon a bleeding man, slumped across a table, and those who watched the getaway of a small brown rebel mouse. Archie, for one, watched the mouse. He watched it stand very still for a second with a smug look as if it expected nothing less. He watched it scurry away, over his hand. He watched it dash along the table, and through the hands of those who wished to pin it down. He watched it leap off the end and disappear through an air vent. Go on my son! thought Archie.
No. Authors who don't try are, as may lodically be expected, terrible.Was that...sarcasm?
leave it to me to forget... especially something profound...
And of the Witch? In the life of a Witch, there is no after, in the ever after of a Witch, there is no happily; in the story of a Witch there is no afterword. Of that part that is beyond the life story, beyond the story of life, there is - alas, or perhaps thank mercy - no telling. She was dead, dead and gone, and all that was left of her was the carapace of her reputation for malice.
“And there the wicked old Witch stayed for a good long time.â€
“And did she ever come out?â€
“Not yet.â€
I'd have to disagree. A Million Little Pieces by James Frey isn't proof read at all, and it has to be one of the best books I've read in a while. Sadly, the ending is rubbish.No. Authors who don't try are, as may lodically be expected, terrible.Was that...sarcasm?
It's so depressingAnd the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and hare-bells; listened to soft wind breathing through the grass; and wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumber for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
Wuthering Heights
That's my favourite Cormac McCarthy. The Road was a little too grim for me - I'll stick to his light, fluffy stuff.He rode with the sun coppering his face and the red wind blowing our of the west across the evening land and the small desert birds flew chittering among the dry bracken and horse and rider and horse passed on and their long shadows passed in tandem like the shadow of a single being. Passed and paled into the darkening land, the world to come.
All the Pretty Horses
Keep calling for me, Viola.
Cuz here I come
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