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时间：2021-04-23 19:25:56 作者：为辣条正名！长沙辣条博物馆，每天接待近万名游客 浏览量：74958
“Daniel, Daniel,” he said, “don’t you mean to take that office?”
The sports were fixed for the last Saturday of term, but not all theraces were run on that day. The half-mile came off on the previousThursday, and the long steeplechase on the Monday after.
“Take him away, Harpiton,” said the prince, “fill him with sack, and turn him out.”
The proverbial conservatism of the unchanging East, which is felt in all ecclesiastical as well as in social matters, will make our task in the present chapter much lighter. The action of evolution, which makes the history of the Western vestments so complex, is hardly felt in the East. The mediaevalism, or, rather, primaevalism, which shuts out instrumental aid from the musical portions of the Eastern service acts upon vestments in minimizing the profusion of ornamentation which plays such an important part in the externals of Western ritual.
George still stared morosely at the fire. “When I think of the swell time I could have without you, I go nuts. I never get no peace.”
The Spirit of the Crew
“I am afraid you didn’t enjoy yourself at all,” said Mary Jane hopelessly.
1.On Saturday they lay ten miles off Liddington in a hazy calm. Billy, who was usually overworked as a matter of course, stretched out forward and went to sleep on the deck. Badeau sat on the rail by the wheel, grumbling—as a man will who has no resources within himself to turn idle hours to account. Bruce whittled a shingle. After a long time Badeau spoke.
2.Shaw and all the other Ibsenites were fond of insisting that a defect in the romantic drama was its tendency to end with wedding-bells. Against this they set the modern drama of middle-age, the drama which described marriage itself instead of its poetic preliminaries. Now if Bernard Shaw had been more patient with popular tradition, more prone to think that there might be some sense in its survival, he might have seen this particular problem much more clearly. The old playwrights have left us plenty of plays of marriage and middle-age. Othello is as much about what follows the wedding-bells as The Doll’s House. Macbeth is about a middle-aged couple as much as Little Eyolf. But if we ask ourselves what is the real difference, we shall, I think, find that it can fairly be stated thus. The old tragedies of marriage, though not love stories, are like love stories in this, that they work up to some act or stroke which is irrevocable as marriage is irrevocable; to the fact of death or of adultery.>
Of the Jacobite glasses, those dedicated to the Old Pretender are entirely beyond the hopes of the ordinary collector. A few exist in old country houses dotted up and down the country and in various museums. One in the British Museum bears the mottoes “Cognoscunt me mei” and “Premium Virtutis.” Young Pretender glasses are naturally much more numerous, and it is probable that specimens may still be found in out-of-the-way places.
The chief occupation in Japan seems to be a perpetual hunt after curios. We sit down on the mattings, in the antique-sellers’ little booths, taking a cup of tea with the salesmen, and rummage with our own hands in the cupboards and chests, where many a fantastic piece of old rubbish is huddled away. The bargaining, much discussed, is laughingly carried on for several days, as if we were trying to play off some excellent little practical joke upon each other.
-How the hell did she end up there ... -Was she running away from you? -I think so ... with another man anyway. I need a little sleep first. Wake me in about forty minutes. -Sure. You going to tell me about her on the drive? -Yes. -Great! She stood by the door, watching him, wanting him to say more. When Patrick had come out of prison six months earlier many dissident groups were already voicing themselves within the city. The events in Spain, the government's crackdown on unions, made the rich and powerful close ranks. Troops were in evidence everywhere. When the last shift left the water-filtration plant the police and the army moved in to guard it. Military tents bivouacked on the rolling grounds. There were soldiers on the roofs and searchlights dipped now and then along the waves of the lake, protecting against any possible attack from the direction of the lakeshore. While most public buildings were guarded, the waterworks was obsessively watched - partly because of the warnings of Commissioner Harris, who reminded officials that the Goths could have captured Rome by destroying the aqueducts which led into the city. Cutting off the water supply or poisoning it would bring the city to its knees. Harris saw the new building as a human body. For him there were six locations where it could be seriously crippled - the raw water pumps, the Venturi meters, the entrance to the tanks where ferric chloride was poured, the twenty-four-foot-deep settling basins, and any one of the twenty filter pools where an explosion would cause floods and permanently rust all engines and electrical equipment. There was also the intake-pipe tunnel that ran almost a mile and a half out into the lake. No boats were allowed within a half-mile of the shoreline and no one, not even military personnel, was admitted into the building at night. Only Harris, who now insisted on sleeping there in his office, was allowed in, a pistol kept beside his bed. In his dressing-gown, at two in the morning, Commissioner Harris was happy in the cocoon of humming machines. He would get up and roam through the palace of water which he had dreamed and desired and built. Every electrical outlet blazed, lighting up disappearing corridors as if Viennese streets, turning the subterranean filter pools into cloudy ballrooms. The building pulsed all night in the east end of the city on the edge of Lake Ontario. It was rumoured that people on the south shore in New York State could see the aura from it. The filtration plant was one corner of a triangle of light that seemed to chart the city on this Saturday night in the summer of 1938. Another was a river of lights moving north up Yonge Street from the lake. And third was the dazzle from the Yacht Club on Toronto Island-holding its summer costume ball, with water taxisferrying bizarrely dressed society across the bay on the one-mile trip over rough water. Such dance floors the rich spent their evenings on! Strutting like colts in a warm barn, out of the rain. And in bed the following morning they would reconstruct the choreography of temptations which had carried them from the crowded periphery of the hall to the sprung dance floor beneath the thirty-foot coconut palms - clusters of which adorned the ballroom that seemed to have no ceiling, only false stars and false moonlight. In each set of trees was a live monkey, never able to reach the diners because of a frail chain. The animals had to dodge the champagne corks aimed at them - if you hit a monkey you were brought a free bottle. Sales of champagne soared and only now and then was there a shriek followed by a cheer. There was a silk canopy over the band. Along the walls were dioramas. Sometimes cotton snowballs were distributed and a battle broke out promptly, the guests soaking them in champagne or butter before flinging them around the room. The ballroom was lit indirectly; it seemed they were all in a moment of time that resembled the half-hour before the sun comes up over an oasis. There is an image of Caravaggio among the rich which Patrick will always remember: meticulous, rude, and confident. A parting in his dark hair like Yonge Street at midnight. Dressed as a pirate, he had leapt off the motor launch on that midsummer night with his dog and Giannetta and Patrick, yelled his greetings to total strangers, and strolled into the false moonlight of the Yacht Club ballroom claiming to be Randolph Frog. Society women accepted his name with a straight face - the rich, being able to change everything but their names and looks, would defend these characteristics with care. In this circle a man with the face of a pit bull was considered distinguished. They had not been invited. Caravaggio was eating canapes with his left hand and patting women on the ass with his right. When the orchestra's playing brought out the couples, Caravaggio lifted his dog into his arms and waltzed among them kissing August wildly, exclaiming over the beauty of his moles. For the next hour he danced with women who noted to themselves the odour of hound on his neck. Patrick and Giannetta meanwhile hung back on the periphery of the ballroom, refusing to leave it as if they might fall into a snakepit. But Caravaggio was a man who had traipsed through the gardens and furnishings of the wealthy for many years. He nudged men, told jokes, discussed china and crystal with wives and connoisseurs, complaining about getting Louis XIV chairs cleaned, and in the privacy behind his drunkenness cemented away information and addresses. Finally he found the couple he wanted. In their early forties, drinking hard, a flirtatious wife and a bully of a husband. He danced with his eyes against hers singing "Night and Day. " "Vicina o lontana da me non importa mia cara, dove sei . . ." She was impressed by his Italian, which he claimed to have picked up in Tuscany the previous summer. His fingers circled her shoulder blade. She leaned back. -Do you see my husband over there near the chandelier propositioning that girl? He's probably suggesting the yacht.
Now I make my beliefs as I want them. I do not attempt to distil them out of fact as physicists distil their laws. I make them thus and not thus exactly as an artist makes a picture so and not so. I believe that is how we all make our beliefs, but that many people do not see this clearly and confuse their beliefs with perceived and proven fact.