“I don’t think I shall send it anywhere,” he answered, tossing his head back in that odd way that used to make his friends laugh at him at Oxford. Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse. “You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor. “It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done,” said Lord Henry languidly. But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake. In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.Īs the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there. The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.įrom the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-coloured blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. You should visit Browse Happy and update your internet browser today! it kiid of gets you.The embedded audio player requires a modern internet browser. When you eatch yo mother) the childhood symbel of security and rightness, crying desolately in the kitchen when you look at your tall, dreamy-eyed kid brother and think that all his potentialities in the line of science are going to be cut off before he gets a chance. ![]() Ed, I guess this all sounds a bit frantic. The big tien are all deaf they don't want to hear the little squeaking as they walk across the street in cleated boots. But weitinig poems and letters doesn't" seemto do much good. I want to stop it all, the whole monumental grotesque joke, before it's too late. [want to become acutely aware of all P've taken for granted/ When you feel that this may be the good-bye, the last time, it hits you harder. remember, remember, this is now, and now, and now. It all flowed over me with a screaming ache of pain. It's getting co Last night, driving back from Boston, I lay back in the car and let the colored lights come at me, the music from the radio, the reflection of the guy driving. First, I guess, I'm afraid for myself the old primitive urge for survival. Let's face it: I'm scared, scared and frozen. My mental fear, which can be at times forced into the background, reared up and caught me in the pit of my stomach it became a physical nausea which wouldn't let me eat breakfast. From a letter to Ed "Your letter came just now The one about your walk in the city, about war. Peter had climbed to the level of the window in the little maple tree and was shaking the leaves down. I went up to my room, and I heard a commotion outside. Clean doesn't feel good because you're all wet." He played with Warren. I don't like the looks of dirt, but like the feel of it. ![]() If you had a baby would you call him pipsqueak?" "I'm not tan," he continued. I could sit by the hour listenin 'of asking in a small tight voice, "Who was that house? Who does he like best, Warren" or you?" And then, "He called me pipsqueak. Today the doorbell I rang could it was sit by little the Peter. ![]() ![]() 1 0 JULY independent off me, tremulous with love and longing, weeping Stood there was hard get sleep.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |