|
Post by Pink Betty on Dec 9, 2009 21:45:40 GMT
chapter fifty-one ...the delight of being cosy indoors reading of foul weather - while it rages outdoors.
|
|
|
Post by Pink Betty on Dec 9, 2009 21:52:27 GMT
chapter fifty-two ...the delight of having one's fortune told. '...in the mild patter of the lady staring at our palms or at the cards we have cut, we catch echoes of the lost voices from our most grandiose dreams.'
|
|
|
Post by Pink Betty on Dec 9, 2009 22:03:22 GMT
chapter fifty-three the tickle of delight afforded by being near wood being worked. 'Is it because wood, no matter how chopped and trimmed and planed, somehow remains alive?'And notice how few men who work with wood seem unhappy, defeated.'
|
|
|
Post by eric on Dec 10, 2009 8:53:23 GMT
chapter fifty-one ...the delight of being cosy indoors reading of foul weather - while it rages outdoors. Well, either that is a poor artist or the woman has implants 'cos natural breasts don't lie like that when the owner is in that position. I know about these things y'know. Eric
|
|
|
Post by nickcosmosonde on Dec 10, 2009 13:37:00 GMT
Ch.52:
It's me!
Ch.53:
It's me again!
Ch.51:
Ah, now here, I would be lying behind her, gently cupping one of the objects in dispute, and we'd be watching a good film - The Old Crooked House, perhaps - and drinking a fine whisky.
|
|
|
Post by Pink Betty on Dec 10, 2009 18:27:25 GMT
so long since i read that particular Murdoch - wrap up warm and enjoy.... .... after all, that is what delight is all about
|
|
|
Post by nickcosmosonde on Dec 11, 2009 0:31:14 GMT
How odd. I'm reading her The Red and the Green at the moment, about the upstart Irish rebellion. It's tedious, I'm bored stiff with it. I need something to cup, I think. Drink, at least.
|
|
|
Post by Pink Betty on Jan 21, 2010 8:28:01 GMT
chapter fifty four a delight in comic characters - relatives or old friends of the family as grotesque as any found in Gogol or Dickens - who lived tremendously up to themselves (like comedians in the third act).
|
|