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Updated: June 19, 2025
It was a gala night in Curzon Street, the lords were driving up in hansoms; shouts and oaths; some seated on the roofs with their legs swinging inside; the comics had arrived from the halls; there were ladies, many ladies; choruses were going merrily in the drawing-room; one man was attempting to kick the chandelier, another stood on his head on the sofa.
One or two of the principals were standing perplexedly in the lower entrance. The O. P. side had been given over by general consent to Mr Goble for his perambulations. Every now and then he would flash into view through an opening in the scenery. "I understood that tonight was the night for the great revival of comic opera. Where are the comics, and why aren't they opping?"
There is one thing in England that is free, that is spontaneous, that reminds me of the blitheness and nationalness of the Continent; but there is nothing French about it, it is wholly and essentially English, and in its communal enjoyment and its spontaneity it is a survival of Elizabethan England I mean the music-hall; the French music-hall seems to me silly, effete, sophisticated, and lacking, not in the popularity, but in the vulgarity of an English hall I will not say the Pavilion, which is too cosmopolitan, dreary French comics are heard there for preference let us say the Royal.
"Why did it have to be pleasant all week and then rain on Saturday?" thought Jerry unhappily the following Saturday. He watched the rain slant against the front windows for a while and then picked up the morning paper to reread the comics. "April showers may bring May flowers, but it's tough on baseball," he said to himself. Andy came in the living room.
While we are making New Year resolves let us resolve to spend less time with shams, more with realities; less with dogma, more with sermons in stones; less with erotic novels and baneful journals, more with the books in the running brooks; listening less readily to gossip and malice, more willingly to the tongues in trees; spending more pleasureful hours with the music of bird and breeze, rippling rivers, and laughing leaves; less time with cues and cards and colored comics, more with cloud and star, fish and field, and forest.
A tip circulates and in the place knowingly mentioned, gather the lower moral-classes on Saturday and Sunday nights the little troubled men who are pictured in the comics as "the Consumer" or "the Public."
There are no pictures in that book, are there? There are words. I guess being blind makes you have to develop a vivid imagination." Seong Seob did not say anything. "Comics about what?" He was trying to control this disapproving undertone that often crept into his voice. He disliked wasted leisure.
They're jest ter'ble, an' it seems to me we sure need a reg'ment o' United States Cavalry settin' around on horses an' field guns to pertect us, ef we're to farm this one-hossed layout. They're 'bad men, mum, miss which I made a mistake ag'in that's wot they are. I've read about 'em in the fi'-cent comics, so I sure know 'em when I see 'em. You can't never make no mistake.
The Indian group listened to this weird instrument with the profoundest gravity. If there is anything inherently comic in our low comics it was entirely lost on them. "Now de' tumbs is you and your fader, de first finger is you and your mudder, ze next is you and your sister, ze little finger is you and your brudder, ze ring finger is you and your sweetheart.
He had never been good at modern math so his studies were centered innocuously in musicology. "What do I know about this?" he asked himself. "What do I know about anything?" "Will they do that to the North Koreans?" "I don't know. Don't know hope not. What are you reading?" "Nothing." "What's nothing?" "Comics." "In Braille?" "Yes." "You can't see the pictures.
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