cleaning up so well (jones_casey) wrote,
cleaning up so well

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i can still make a fist/you know i still got my one good arm

friday xxvii

the fifth line, undivided, shows the union of all under its subject in the place of dignity. there will be no error. if any do not have confidence in him, let him see to it that his virtue be great, long-continued, and firmly correct, and all occasion for repentance will disappear.

the papers went on talking, and so he allowed that maybe if he didn't go he mightn't ever have another chance to see a balloon; and next, he found out that nat parsons was going down to see it, and that decided him, of course. he wasn't going to have nat parsons coming back bragging about seeing the balloon, and him having to listen to it and keep quiet. so he wanted me and jim to go too, and we went.

until a man shall have renounced all that leads humanity to contend without giving a thought to the ordering of spiritual wealth, he will never set his temporal goods either upon a satisfactory foundation. yes, even as times of want and scarcity may come upon nations, so may they come upon individuals. no matter what may be said to the contrary, the body can never dispense with the soul. why, then, will you not try to walk in the right way, and, by thinking no longer of dead souls, but only of your only living one, regain, with god's help, the better road? i too am leaving the town to-morrow. hasten, therefore, lest, bereft of my assistance, you meet with some dire misfortune.

though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character. that he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. he certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. she distrusted the past, if not the present. the names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. she saw that there had been bad habits; that sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? how could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed?

mr elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. there was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. this, to anne, was a decided imperfection. her early impressions were incurable. she prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. she felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped.

malheur à la malheureuse tamise!
tamisel qui coule si pres du spectateur.
le directeur
du spectateur
empeste la brise.
les actionnaires
du spectateur
bras dessus bras dessous
font des tours
a pas de loup.
dans un égout
une petite fille
en guenilles
le directeur
du spectateur
et crève d'amour.

thereafter, when hungry, he had but to look into the cupboard to find goodly supplies brought by the kindly ryls. and the knooks cut and stacked much wood for his fireplace. and the fairies brought him warm blankets and clothing.

so began his life in the laughing valley, with the favor and friendship of the immortals to minister to his every want.

here i am carrying a human being under my arm as though it were a portfolio. a human being, alive, with soul, with feelings like anyone else. . . . if by good luck the myelkins adopt him, he may turn out somebody. . . . maybe he will become a professor, a great general, an author. . . . anything may happen! now i am carrying him under my arm like a bundle of rubbish, and perhaps in thirty or forty years i may not dare to sit down in his presence. . . .

he won't die until he's three score and ten: he hasn't originality enough.

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