The true colour of life is the colour of the body, the colour of the covered red, the implicit and not explicit red of the living ...heart and the pulses. It is the modest colour of the unpublished blood.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Modern thought has transferred the spectral character of Death to the notion of time itself. Time has become Death triumphant over... all.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
... often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painter's sensitivity to light. Much (...and perhaps the best) of my writing is verbal painting.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Circumstances ... give in reality to every political principle its distinguishing colour and discriminating effect. The circumstan...ces are what render every civil and political scheme beneficial or noxious to mankind.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Iconic clothing has been secularized.... A guardsman in a dress uniform is ostensibly an icon of aggression; his coat is red as th...e blood he hopes to shed. Seen on a coat-hanger, with no man inside it, the uniform loses all its blustering significance and, to the innocent eye seduced by decorative colour and tactile braid, it is as abstract in symbolic information as a parasol to an Eskimo. It becomes simply magnificent.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Piles of scrapbooks, the cuttings turned by time to the colour of the freckles on an old lady's hand. Her hand. My hand, as it is ...now. When you touch the old newsprint, it turns into brown dust, like the dust of bones.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, t...he moon rose in the east, as big as a cart-wheel, pale silver and streaked with rose colour, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little boy again, and that my way could end there.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
Hats have never at all been one of the vexing problems of my life, but, indifferent as I am, these render me speechless. I should ...think a well-taught and tasteful American milliner would go mad in England, and eventually hang herself with bolts of green and scarlet ribbon--the favorite colour combination in Liverpool.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The average man votes below himself; he votes with half a mind or a hundredth part of one. A man ought to vote with the whole of h...imself, as he worships or gets married. A man ought to vote with his head and heart, his soul and stomach, his eye for faces and his ear for music; also (when sufficiently provoked) with his hands and feet. If he has ever seen a fine sunset, the crimson colour of it should creep into his vote.... The question is not so much whether only a minority of the electorate votes. The point is that only a minority of the voter votes.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
White ... is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black.... God p...aints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »