Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: July 8, 2025
The man, seeing these things and knowing as few men ever know their value, waited her verdict. It came with a smile and a pretty fancy, as though she caught the mood of the novelist's reply. "He has told me so much about you how kind you are to him, and how he loves you. I hope you don't mind that he and I have learned to be good friends. Won't you tell me his name?
As he walked slowly through the collection of busts and statues of that first room, called "Marbles" on the catalogue, without glancing with the eye of a practised judge at the Gobelin tapestry upon the walls, it must have been that he considered as very grave the novelist's revelation.
Then, ah! then, moreover, will the novelist's Art, now neither blushless infant nor executive man, have attained its majority. We can then be veraciously historical, honestly transcriptive. Rose-pink and dirty drab will alike have passed away.
The short jerky sentences which disfigure the 'Three Musketeers, and indeed all that great novelist's works, are very frequent with them, which induces me to believe that they are paid by the line. On the other hand, some affect fashionable description and conversation which are drawn out in 'passages that lead to nothing' of an amazing length.
There is the further vast difficulty that whilst in most cases the novelist's procedure is to work on a system of exciting curiosity, it is an unwritten law of drama, almost universally true, that there must be no surprises for the audience, except, it may be, in farcical plays that do not pretend to represent life truly and in matters of detail.
Remarking on the difficulty of rendering the novelist's physiognomy, on account of its mobility and strange aspect, Gautier gives it as his opinion that Boulanger succeeded perfectly in seizing the complex expression which seemed to escape all efforts of the brush.
There was just enough of bewildered, leaderless indecision to settle the matter. The sabres swept flashingly around the squad of redskins, and all they had to do was to surrender. It is a mere novelist's blunder to suppose and to write that red men have not sense enough to give it up when there is no use in fighting any more.
An epic might well be written on the great novelist's journey to Africa, upon her departure from Charing Cross, shrouded in a black gauze veil, her silent thought as the good ship Empress rode cork-like upon the Channel waves, her ascetic lunch a captain's biscuit and a glass of water at the buffet at Calais, her arrival in Paris when the shades of night had fallen. An epic might well be written.
In the novelist's correspondence, there is a curious letter written on the 2nd of August to Madame Emile de Girardin. In it the writer excuses himself for not calling on her, being obliged to remain at home on account of the disquieting condition of a lady friend of his who had hurt herself and was under medical treatment.
A novel, of necessity, nails an art-effort down to some definite part or parts of the earth's surface the novelist's wagon can't always be hitched to a star. Hawthorne's art was true and typically American as is the art of all men living in America who believe in freedom of thought and who live wholesome lives to prove it, whatever their means of expression.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking