“When he got in and the boat was under way, and the rain-swollen river, like a stream of tears welling up from the earth, swirled and sobbed at her bows, then he felt a sort of pain at heart ; the grief-stricken face of a village girl seemed to represent for him the great unspoken pervading grief of Mother Earth herself. At one time he had an impulse to go back, and bring away along with him that lonesome waif, forsaken of the world.”
Tagore, Rabindranath. The Postmaster. Macmillan, 1918, page 168.
“Janie starched and ironed her face and came set in the funeral behind her veil. It was like a wall of stone and steel. The funeral was going on outside. All things concerning death and burial were said and done. Finish. End. Nevermore. Darkness. Deep hole. Dissolution. Eternity. Weeping and wailing outside. Inside the expensive black folds were resurrection and life. She did not reach outside for anything, nor did the things of death reach inside to disturb her calm. She sent her face to Joe’s funeral, and herself went rollicking with springtime across the world.”
Hurston, Nora Zeale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2006, page 89.
“Spade emptied the unconscious man’s pockets one by one, working methodically, moving the lax body when necessary, making a pile of the pockets’ contents on the desk. When the last pocket had been turned out he returned to his own chair, rolled and lighted a cigarette, and began to examine his spoils. He examined them with grave unhurried thoroughness.”
Hammett, Dashiell. The Maltese Falcon. First Vintage Crime, 1992, page 47.
“Before us the thick dark current runs. It talks up to us in a murmur become ceaseless and myriad, the yellow surface dimpled monstrously into fading swirls travelling along the surface for an instant, silent, impermanent and profoundly significant, as though just beneath the surface something huge and alive waked for a moment of lazy alertness out of and into light slumber again.”
141 Faulkner, William. As I Lay Dying, New York Vintage, 1990, page 141.
“But he had never got on well with old Parry, that querulous, weak-kneed old man, Clarissa’s father, Justin Parry.
‘I often wish I’d got on better with your father,’ he said.
‘But he never liked any one who — our friends,’ said Clarissa; and could have bitten her tongue for thus reminding Peter that he had wanted to marry her.”
-Woolf, Virginia. Mrs. Dalloway. Harcourt, Inc, 2005, page 41
“It pained him well that he did not know well what politics meant and that he did not know where the universe ended.”
Joyce, James. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Oxford University Press, 2008, page 13.
“His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul capable of simple joys, and he was drifting amid life like the barren shell of the moon.”
Joyce, James. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Oxford University Press, 2008, page 80.
“He had had a revelation of his range. What he dreaded was the idea that his reputation should stand on the unfinished. It was not with his past but with his future that it should properly be concerned. Illness and age rose before him like spectres with pitiless eyes: how was he to bribe such fates to give him the second chance? He had had the one chance that all men have – he had had the chance of life.”
-James, Henry. “The Middle Years.” H. James Complete Stories 1892-1898, The Library of America, 1996, page 346.
“‘You’ve made me think it all a delusion.’
‘Not your glory, my friend,’ stammered the young man.
‘Not my glory – what there is of it! It is glory – to have been tested, to have had our little quality and cast our little spell. The thing is to have made somebody care. You happen to be crazy, or course, but that doesn’t affect the law.’
‘You’re a great success!’ said Doctor Hugh, putting into his young voice the ring of a marriage-bell.
Dencombe lay taking this in; then he gathered strength to speak once more. ‘A second chance – that’s the delusion. There never was but one. We work in the dark – we do what we can – we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.'”
-James, Henry. “The Middle Years.” H. James Complete Stories 1892-1898, The Library of America, 1996, page 354.
“He sat and stared at the sea, which appeared all surface and twinkle, far shallower than the spirit of man. It was the abyss of human illusion that was the real, the tideless deep.”
-James, Henry. “The Middle Years.” H. James Complete Stories 1892-1898, The Library of America, 1996, page 335.