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Updated: June 24, 2025
Nachéz, "but when my name happens to be mentioned, echo always answers 'Gypsy Dances, my little rubbishy 'Gypsy Dances! It is not quite fair. I wrote the 'Gypsy Dances' as a mere boy when I was studying with H. Léonard in Paris, and really at his suggestion. In one of my lessons I played Sarasate's 'Spanish Dances, which chanced to be published at the time, and at once made a great hit.
She read "a queer biography of Wordsworth by Hood," and she regarded Carlyle's diction in the "French Revolution" as "rubbishy." Besides the pilgrimages in search of shells, another pursuit was inaugurated by my mother, in her breathlessly calm way, which was the finding of multitudinous seaweeds of every eccentricity of style.
Now that we look at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone now just because she has lost her babes, I find I won't be able to say nasty things about her after all. If she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn't help it. Look at her in her chair, where she has fallen asleep. The corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is almost withered up.
In one corner of the court yawned like the entrance to a cave the mouth of the passageway by which it was entered. In another stood a dilapidated handcart in which some dweller there was accustomed to carry abroad his rubbishy wares.
Now, when all this overgrowth of rubbishy comment is being swept away, and those who contemned Wagner are disappearing with those who battened on him and his memory, Tristan and Isolda remains, a world-masterpiece, the most powerful, beautiful, sweet and tender embodiment to be found in any art of elemental human love in all its splendour, loveliness, fearfulness, terror and utter selfishness.
His compositions differ only terminorum positione from dreams; nothing but rude heaps of immaterial, incoherent, drossy, rubbishy stuff, promiscuously thrust up together; enough to infuse dulness and barrenness in conceit into him that is so prodigal of his ears as to give the hearing; enough to make a man's memory ache with suffering such dirty stuff cast into it.
Curtis took it from him and examined it carefully. "It isn't a meat can; top edges are turned over a wire here's a bit sticking out and it's had a handle. There's a hinge in another place. The thing has been a box a cash-box, I guess one of the rubbishy kind they sell for about a dollar." "But what would make a man smash up his cash-box?" "I don't know; guess it doesn't apply.
And, of all disreputable things, tumbled, rumpled, and tousled finery is the most disreputable. A simple white muslin, that can come fresh from the laundry every week, is, in point of real taste, worth any amount of spangled tissues. A plain straw bonnet, with only a ribbon across it, is in reality in better taste than rubbishy birds or butterflies, or tinsel ornaments.
"She must go her own way. A man's children nowadays are not his own. That's the fact of the matter. Their minds are turned against him.... Rubbishy novels and pernicious rascals. We can't even protect them from themselves." An immense gulf seemed to open between father and daughter as he said these words. "I don't see," gasped Ann Veronica, "why parents and children... shouldn't be friends."
Though I must say, I have learned to stiffen with people I don't like and I'll have to admit that I like fewer and fewer. People don't wear well, do they? What IS the matter with them? Why can't they be natural and not make themselves into rubbishy, old scrap-bags full of fakes and pretenses? You're looking at my hair." They were in Mrs.
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