This might be the end of the world. If Joe lost we were back in slavery and beyond help. It would all be true, the accusations tha...t we were lower types of human beings. Only a little higher than apes. True that we were stupid and ugly and lazy and dirty and, unlucky and worst of all, that God Himself hated us and ordained us to be hewers of wood and drawers of water, forever and ever, world without end.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Why must it always end this way? A dais with woman reading, with the ruckus of her hair... And all that is unsaid about her pulling us back to her, with her Into the silence that night alone can't explain.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I really don't think this war will end soon. We are completely aware of the difficulties, no food or fuel, the danger, but we want... to be stronger than all that. With each child, we are fighting back with our love of life.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
My one pupil has begun his work with me, and I will give you a description how the lecture is conducted. It is the most important ...point, you know, that the tutor should be dignified and at a distance from the pupil, and that the pupil should be as much as possible degraded.... So I sit at the further end of the room; outside the door (which is shut) sits the scout; outside the outer door (also shut) sits the sub-scout: half-way downstairs sits the sub- sub-scout: and down in the yard sits the pupil. The questions are shouted from one to the other, and the answers come back in the same way--it is rather confusing till you are well used to it.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
He had seen the end of an era, the sunset of the pioneer. He had come upon it when already its glory was nearly spent. So in the b...uffalo times a traveller used to come upon the embers of a hunter's fire on the prairies, after the hunter was up and gone; the coals would be trampled out, but the ground was warm, and the flattened grass where he had slept and where his pony had grazed, told the story. This was the very end of the road-making West; the men who had put plains and mountains under the iron harness were old; some were poor, and even the successful ones were hunting for rest and a brief reprieve from death. It was already gone, that age; nothing could ever bring it back. The taste and smell and song of it, the visions those men had seen in the air and followed,--these he had caught in a kind of afterglow in their own faces,--and this would always be his.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Cat-lovers will no doubt point out that the elegance and dignity of cats are the consequence of their sojourn in the temples of th...e gods, where their attitudes and movements were regarded as divine prognostications. Be that as it may, it is obvious that the cat's wealth of expressions make it an ideal candidate for such a role. Unlike the dog, which either wags its tail or does not wag its tail, the cat possesses a wide range of means to convey its emotions: It arches its back, makes its fur stand on end, meows, rubs itself against furniture and against humans, purrs, lashes its tail, spits, and hisses. The priests of Bacht, therefore, had ample material for interpretation.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I belong to the fag-end of Victorian liberalism, and can look back to an age whose challenges were moderate in their tone, and the... cloud on whose horizon was no bigger than a man's hand.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go;... A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow. A few more days for to tote the weary load,-- No matter, 't will never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road:-- Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
"The age of independent travel is drawing to an end," said E.M. Forster back in 1920, when it had been increasingly clear for deca...des that the mass production inevitable in the late industrial age had generated its own travel-spawn, tourism, which is to travel as plastic is to wood. If travel is mysterious, even miraculous, and often lonely and frightening, tourism is commonsensical, utilitarian, safe, and social, "that gregarious passion," the traveler Patrick Leigh Fermor calls it, "which destroys the object of its love." Not self-directed but externally enticed, as a tourist you go not where your own curiosity beckons but where the industry decrees you shall go. Tourism soothes, shielding you from the shocks of novelty and menace, confirming your prior view of the world rather than shaking it up. It obliges you not just to behold conventional things but to behold them in the approved conventional way.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »