A posse of Dublin Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York Street brass and reed band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by Speranza’s plaintive muse.
But it did not, at that time, seem to me doubtful that, if there are two patches of red in two different places, there are two particular reds. The necessity of thinking them two was bound up with the relativity of position: the two patches, I thought, differ only in position, and since position is not a quality (or so I thought), it presupposes diversity and cannot constitute it. With the recognition that position in space is absolute, the situation changed. A red patch on my right can be a complex of the two qualities redness and rightness; and a patch on my left can be a complex of the two qualities redness and leftness. Right and left, as well as up and down, have, in all their various degrees, the logical characteristics which are required for geometry, and it is their union with some one quality, such as redness, which gives plurality to two patches of redness seen simultaneously.
(Bertrand Russell, My Philosophical Development, ch. 14)
Parked in North Prince’s street His Majesty’s vermilion mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettecards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, provincial, British and overseas delivery.
She already intended to be a writer and while there she wrote incessantly about the land and her experiences in a “big black exercise book.”
(Boundary-rider?: the early Katharine Susannah Prichard on the edge of fiction and autobiography, A Biographer in Perth)
I crawled about the red carpet from book to book; I smelled their pages in a rite of worship; and then I hauled myself on to my crutches and swung to and fro, fairy figures whirling about me, all round the room.
Pointed, feral faces peer through leaves; half-naked, half-childish sprites with butterfly wings fly against the moon. They arch in delight through mauve, Otherworld twilight by Heath Robinson and Arthur Rackham; they soar above the star-soft night-lights of towns by Edmund Dulac.
(Christopher J. Koch, The Doubleman 1.3)