"the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, he has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible
it was just as though I had been let into some conspiracy— I don’t know—something not quite right for a time I would feel I belonged still to a world of straightforward facts
there was a touch of insanity in the proceeding, a sense of lugubrious drollery
these moribund shapes were free as air—and nearly as thin
it echoed loudly within him because they were hollow at the core....
the smell of mud, of primeval mud, by Jove! was in my nostrils, the high stillness of primeval forest was before my eyes; there were shiny patches on the black creek but in the great de-moralization of the land he kept up his appearance
an hour afterwards I came upon the whole concern wrecked in a bush—man, hammock, groans, blankets, horrors he is an emissary of pity and science and progress, and devil knows what else, he was very anxious for me to kill somebody I did not see the man in the name any more than you do. do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything?
‘... no, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. it is impossible. we live, as we dream—alone. …’ ‘after all,’ said the boiler-maker in a reasonable tone, ‘why shouldn’t we get the rivets?’
rivets. to get on with the work—to stop the hole its title was, AN INQUIRY INTO SOME POINTS OF SEAMANSHIP
i don’t know why we behaved like lunatics. i put my finger to the side of my nose and nodded mysteriously we were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings
wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before an enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse i tried to break the spell—the heavy, mute spell of the wilderness— that seemed to draw him to its pitiless breast by the awakening of forgotten and brutal instincts, by the memory of gratified and monstrous passions
i lived in an infernal mess of rust, nuts, bolts, spanners, hammers, ratchet-drills i remained to dream the nightmare out to the end
barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth glowed sombre under an overcast sky unexpected, wild, and violent as they had been, they had given me an irresistible impression of sorrow
they trespassed upon my thoughts they were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence,
i had no particular desire to enighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces so full of stupid importance
and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced" _____________________________________________________________________________
Stole the "cc" moniker as it wasn't in use really and thought it suitable.
You're either too young or too old for "kettles;" the young don't care and the old don't want reminders, so fuck it.
Pie, nope don't care for it to be honest, although my MIL does a respectable peach pie. It's "pie" of another variety all together that gets me every time.
Misspelling words as some indicator of cleverness won't do either.
I tie flies, average-like.
Guys who begin with, "a fellow Drakian (and friend of mine) said I should throw up an intro," should also, like, just not bother.
IPA sucks; more hops don't make it better so fucking stop it.
Trout tossers ought to fuck off and continue doing so.
Page 5 heroes should keep their own counsel about strong language (glass houses dick), and spare us from whining about loneliness. Nobody cares and nobody left you the keys BTW.
Oh, and as for tits; tits are for kids silly fucking rabbit.
So I'm in right?