Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

i know of no way of judging of the future but by the past.

wednesday xciv

the topmost line, divided, shows it subject with extraordinary boldness wading through a stream, till the water hides the crown of his head.

malaga, madame, is dexterity personified; her little wrist or her little foot can rid her of three or four men. she is the goddess of gymnastics."

"she must be stupid—"

"oh, no," said paz, "i find her as amusing as the heroine of 'peveril of the peak.' thoughtless as a bohemian, she says everything that comes into her head; she thinks no more about the future than you do of the sous you fling to the poor. she says grand things sometimes. you couldn't make her believe that an old diplomatist was a handsome young man, not if you offered her a million of francs. such love as hers is perpetual flattery to a man. her health is positively insolent, and she has thirty-two oriental pearls in lips of coral. her muzzle—that's what she calls the lower part of her face—has, as shakespeare expresses it, the savor of a heifer's nose. she can make a man unhappy. she likes handsome men, strong men, alexanders, gymnasts, clowns. her trainer, a horrible brute, used to beat her to make her supple, and graceful, and intrepid—"

"you are positively intoxicated with malaga."

'o faun,' - he turned to puck - 'the little altar i built to the sylvan pan by the pine-forest beyond the brook?'

'which? the stone one with the line from xenophon?' said puck, in quite a new voice.

'no! what do i know of xenophon? that was pertinax - after he had shot his first mountain-hare with an arrow - by chance! mine i made of round pebbles, in memory of my first bear. it took me one happy day to build.'

certainly the prospect of listening to long monologues on commerce, administration, and politics did not promise much alleviation to his sorrow;

"i don't want; i want to grow potatoes." "have a peppermint?"


blue legacy
cleaning up so well

Latest Month

April 2018


Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Witold Riedel