October 17th, 2013

dark and stormy.

buttered side down

the mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
or being early pluck'd is sour to taste

words that embody people or things in your periphery are "answer, ascent, bear, border, bronze, capital, card, carnival, chrome, enemy, europe, execution, fellowship, flattery, general, god, hornet, hypnosis, letter, mason, medicine, microscope, mountain, mystery, navigator, obedience, party, plague, queen, roulette, throne, tragedy".

"what was it warner overheard the woman say to mr. innes, in the library?" the detective asked me.

"she said `i knew there was something wrong from the start.'"

the sun of successful superiority dazzled the perfumer, as light blinds those insects who seek the falling day or the half-shadows of a starlit night.

"prithee, play the part of a chorus, good doctor byles," said sir william howe. "what worthies are these?"

"if it please your excellency they lived somewhat before my day," answered the doctor; "but doubtless our friend, the colonel, has been hand and glove with them."

"and is that alexander, pa?" says caligula to the landlord; "and why is he called great?"

"that, gentlemen," says the landlord, "is no less than colonel jackson t. rockingham, the president of the sunrise & edenville tap railroad, mayor of mountain valley, and chairman of the perry county board of immigration and public improvements."

"been away a good many years, hasn't he?" i asked.

"no, sir; colonel rockingham is going down to the post-office for his mail.

the kellers, with correspondents all over the world, make twenty thousand francs per annum by charges for postage alone; accounts of expenses of protest pay for mme. la baronne de nucingen's dresses, opera box, and carriage. the charge for postage is a more shocking swindle, because a house will settle ten matters of business in as many lines of a single letter.

all his mental processes of the last year and a half seemed stale and futile, a petty consummation of himself ... and like a sombre background lay that incident of the spring before, that filled half his nights with a dreary terror and made him unable to pray. he was not even a catholic, yet that was the only ghost of a code that he had, the gaudy, ritualistic, paradoxical catholicism whose prophet was chesterton, whose claqueurs were such reformed rakes of literature as huysmans and bourget, whose american sponsor was ralph adams cram, with his adulation of thirteenth-century cathedrals, a catholicism which amory found convenient and ready-made, without priest or sacraments or sacrifice.

"how old are you?" paul asked.

"thirty-nine," replied dawes, glancing at him.

those brown eyes, full of the consciousness of failure, almost pleading for reassurance, for someone to re-establish the man in himself, to warm him, to set him up firm again, troubled paul.

"you'll just be in your prime," said morel. "you don't look as if much life had gone out of you."

the brown eyes of the other flashed suddenly.

"it hasn't," he said. "the go is there."