tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53361831882937380782011-07-28T16:49:15.080+01:00A commonplace book in which I collect interesting prose and poetry I come across in my reading.Maxinenoreply@blogger.comBlogger121100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-3904121654319232252008-02-02T17:56:00.000Z2008-02-03T11:09:31.287Z

Sonia: Well, what can we do? We must go on living!We shall go on living, Uncle Vanya. We shall live through a long, long succession of days and tedious evenings. We shall patiently suffer the trials that fate imposes on us; we shall work for others, now and in our old age, and we shall have no rest. When our time comes, we shall die submissively, and over there, beyond the grave, we shall say

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-68677189555499912032007-03-21T07:38:00.000Z2007-03-21T07:46:07.039Z

Mother, any distance greater than a single spanrequires a second pair of hands.You come to help me measure windows, pelmets, doors,the acres of the walls, the prairies of the floors.You at the zero-end, me with the spool of tape, recordinglength, reporting metres, centimetres back to base, then leavingup the stairs, the line still feeding out, unreelingyears between us. Anchor. Kite.I space-walk

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-45742016351361969552006-12-01T19:20:00.000Z2006-12-01T20:15:00.761Z

This is what he wrote:'DEAR FATHER, -- I dare say you will think it queer me writing you a letter like this, but it is the best thing I can do, and I hope you will excuse me. I dare say you will remember I told you that night when you came home late from Manchester here in the attic that I wanted to be an architect. You replied that what I wanted was business experience. If you say that I have

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-76924833793987385292006-10-22T22:30:00.000+01:002006-10-22T22:40:14.459+01:00

Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yoreThat gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic faceThy Niad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-40896779948631963042006-10-17T19:34:00.000+01:002006-10-17T20:01:33.986+01:00

Shall I be believed? I do not know. And it matters little, after all. What I now affirm is, that I have a right to speak of those seas, under which, in less than ten months, I have crossed 20,000 leagues in that submarine tour of the world, which has revealed so many wonders in the Pacific, the Indian Ocean, the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, the Atlantic, the arctic and antarctic seas.But what has

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-7704769251067235982006-10-06T07:47:00.000+01:002006-10-06T08:11:17.543+01:00

I am not yet born; O hear me.Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me.I am not yet born; console meI fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.I am not yet born; provide meWith water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me,

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-10174483475069518432006-10-03T07:38:00.000+01:002006-10-03T07:48:09.776+01:00

....a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-48614060676044670102006-09-29T08:04:00.000+01:002006-09-29T08:31:16.101+01:00

But two there are, shadow us everywhereAnd will not let us be till we are dead,Hardening the bones, keeping the spirit spare,Original in water, earth and air,Our bitter cordial, our daily bread.Turning over old follies in ante-room,For first-born waiting or for late reprieve,Watching the safety-valve, the slackening loomAbed, abroad, at every turn and tombA shadow starts, a hand is on your

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-3531366859668745402006-09-26T08:17:00.000+01:002006-09-26T08:26:17.191+01:00

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection.'Mum?' he whispered. 'Dad?'They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry's knobbly knees -- Harry was looking at his

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-52421419897729295132006-09-25T19:22:00.000+01:002006-09-25T19:37:52.649+01:00

The success of the Origin may, I think, be attributed in large part to my having long before written two condensed sketches, and to my having finally abstracted a much larger manuscript, which was itself an abstract. By this means I was enabled to select the more striking facts and conclusions. I had, also, during many years, followed a golden rule, namely that, whenever a published fact, a new

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-72989293619708888532006-09-24T13:11:00.000+01:002006-09-24T14:27:44.190+01:00

My first experience of the fierce winds of Provence on my recent holiday made the words of my favourite childhood poem echo in my head. This poem is the first one in the school exercise book into which I began copying poems at the age of 14.Horses on the CamargueRoy CampbellIn the grey wastes of dreadThe haunt of shattered gulls where nothing movesBut in a shroud of silence like the dead,I heard

Maxinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5336183188293738078.post-8174329462690723332006-09-23T16:38:00.000+01:002006-09-23T16:58:43.573+01:00

"Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness. Receive, coldly and dispassionately, every attention, till you have ascertained and duly considered the worth of the aspirant; and let your affections be consequent upon approbation alone. First study; then approve; then love. Let your eyes be blind

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