She unfolded the sheet of paper faded to azure once on the train.
(Jack Cox, Dodge Rose)
He was born in 1856 in Freiberg, Moravia (now Pribor, Czech Republic), a 13-century market town on a hill above the Lubina River and surrounded by lush meadows and the green, shimmering Beskydy Mountains.
(Janine Burke, ‛Freud’s Vienna’, Sydney Morning Herald, 7 Jan. 2006)
That example implies, too, that it would be totally mistaken to pry the pleasure apart from the activity and seek it on its own: for it would then not be the bloom on the cheek of a healthy person, it would be the rouge on the cheek of a person who has not bothered to cultivate health.
(Martha Nussbaum, ‘Who is the happy warrior? Philosophy poses questions to psychology’)
Peter Murphy est un Schiele gothique – expressionniste, romantique, théâtral, magnifique avec son long et large manteau noir, son regard entouré de khôl, son visage blême, les joues creusées, sans couleurs.
(La félinité, « Bauhaus, l’élégance de la new-wave »)
From THE WHITE GARDEN (1995)
When I saw that Robin Cadwallader had recently published a novel titled ‘The Book of Colours’, I went back to my novel ‘The White Garden’ in which there is a long section called ‘The Book of Colours’. This one of mine is narrated by St Teresa of Avila. She is reflecting on moments in her life, taking as her prompt her memories of different colours.
Here is her piece on ‘The Cinnamon Walls of the Incarnation Convent’:
“I crossed the humped bridge over the little stream, and soon I saw the elms, their bare branches black amongst the snow, etched against the cinnamon walls of the Incarnation. I paused, small, and I drew in my breath. The crisp air entered my throat and lungs, and I felt an intense pain. Summoning all my resolve, I crossed the vestibule where the floor was cobbled and the…
View original post 49 more words