Search options (Page 29 of 38)

"Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. In easy state upon this couch, there sat a jolly Giant, glorious to see; who bore a glowing torch, in shape not unlike Plenty’s horn, and held it up, high up, to shed its light on Scrooge, as he came peeping round the door."

“You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

Your last two lines are exactly how I feel about Gone with the Wind.

Mayflowers

Yorky

"I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days — three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain."

– John Keats

I didn't know all that about weather in England, Dill! Thanks for that!

Memphis, I'd love to taste a June apple in the mountains of Virginia!

(I) think this scene is intended to reflect the main character's devastation in this moment. Like the way poetry impacts through visuals. Apples have a connotation within a poetic piece which seem to scream from this June (JANE!) snow. And the storm sweeping through and killing everything new, and everything hopeful is the scene which precedes this passage. So June = "everything is blooming most recklessly," so why in the world is it destroyed by winter? Is this the winter we've just finished or the winter to come? We are surrounded by winter. Everything is winter, and it's unpredictable and it devastates the delicate, the new, and the tender shoots. And it's the same winter which began the novel and made walking so difficult.

The apple is a laughingstock now. It had no right to ripen. It is a Jane apple and a Jane snow, and it really is possible to be in both winter and summer. To be at the start and the finish, to be cold and most hot, to ripen even as you are dying.

Storm?

“A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.”  – Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

I have all those things. You will have to give me something else.

(If I wrote the story of Apostrophe Man, it would end in tragedy: Comma Man would steal all the apostrophes and claim them as his own. Plurals would no longer be reliable, and S-Elves would take over the world. Everyone would grow bored of Comma Man's surplus of punctuation, so we'd all start throwing commas everywhere. We'd be writing in staggering plurals.)

cranberries, for your plate looks mighty lonely with just the sodden potato.

You say pettitoe, I say potato.

The hillside whiten'd with blossoms of the mountain ash...