A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of... a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The English language is like a broad river on whose bank a few patient anglers are sitting, while, higher up, the stream is being ...polluted by a string of refuse-barges tipping out their muck.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Ibsen is like this room where we are sitting, with all the tables and chairs. Do I care whether you have twenty or twenty-five lin...ks on your chain? Hedda Gabler, Nora and the rest: it is not that I want! I want Rome and the Coliseum, the Acropolis, Athens; I want beauty, and the flame of life.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Our conversation begins to look like the last scene in Eugene O'Neill's great family drama, Long Day's Journey Into the [sic] Nigh...t. Sitting together in a dwindling pool of light, the family talks on. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters are trying to explain: not understanding, but comprehending; loving one another, but hating and hurting each other; tangling and untangling like badly cast fishing lines, a group of inviolate, wounded selves. O'Neill's characters, like the rest of us, are speaking about the family in order to explain their attitudes toward life itself.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Captain Prescott: I don't like this. I don't like her coming here. Mr. Beardsley: She's had me worried for some time, a woman... of that sort. T.R. Devlin: What sort is that, Mr. Beardsley? Mr. Beardsley: I don't think any of us have any illusions about her character, have we Devlin? Devlin: Not at all. Not in the slightest. Miss Huberman is first, last, and always not a lady. She may be risking her life, but when it comes to being a lady, she doesn't hold a candle to your wife, sir, sitting in Washington playing bridge with three other ladies of great honor and virtue.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
--First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,--... And the parson was sitting up on a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! MWhat do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground!LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
By sitting dressed like this, in rooms like these, Saying I can't guess what just fancy, when... They could be really drinking, or in bed....LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Surrounded as we are by the wants and woes of our fellow-men, and yet given to follow our own pleasures, regardless of their pains..., are we not like people sitting up with a corpse, and making merry in the house of the dead?LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The art of writing, like the art of love, runs all the way from a kind of routine hard to distinguish from piling bricks to a kind... of frenzy closely related to delirium tremens. Nearly all the whole of everyday journalism belongs to the former category; it is, in its customary aspects, no more than the reduction of vivid and recent impressions to banal sequences of time-worn words and phrases.... But consider the case of a man sitting down to write something genuinely original--to pump an orderly flow of ideas out of the turbid pool of his impressions, feelings, vague thoughts, dimly sensed instincts. He works in a room alone. Every jangle of the telephone cuts him like a knife; every entrance of a visitor blows him up. Solitary, lonely, tired of himself, wrought up to an abnormal sensitiveness, he wrestles abominably with abnormal complexities.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »