Category: writing
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Beautiful sentences
His cry went on through the final image: the spots of raw bright blood on the earth. Blood on excrement. The supreme moment, high above the desert, when the two elements, blood and excrement, long kept apart, merge. A black star appears, a point of darkness in the night sky’s clarity. Point of darkness and…
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Beautiful sentences
It is not a question of where one writes it, Samuil said. Apostasy is apostasy. It is always between one’s self and one’s soul. David Bezmogis, The Free World.
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Beautiful Sentences
It seems as though there might be some place in the world they could have been left alone. Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky.
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Beautiful sentences
And sometimes the night wind nudged his feet so that they struck the circle of his priestly garment like dumb clappers in a deaf-and-dumb bell; they seemed to be tolling without evoking a sound. Joseph Roth, The Radetzky March
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A year of rejections
At this stage of my life, I’ve been submitting stories for publication for seven years. It’s interesting to see the results of these years in handy graph form. The aqua section of the graph has been steadily widening with time. Last year it got to 19% and this year it edged up to 20%. And…
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Beautiful Sentences
This was Venice, the flattering and suspect beauty—this city, half fairy tale and half tourist trap, in whose insalubrious air the arts once rankly and voluptuously blossomed, where composers have been inspired to lulling tones of somniferous eroticism. Thomas Mann, Death in Venice
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Beautiful sentences
All around him Death was circling, circling and mowing. Joseph Roth, The Radetzky March
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Beautiful sentences
But the fact now seemed to be that the aging lover no longer wished to be disenchanted, that the intoxication was too precious to him. Who shall unravel the mystery of an artist’s nature and character! Who shall explain the profound instinctual fusion of discipline and dissoluteness on which it rests! Thomas Mann, Death in…
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Beautiful sentences
The young man was rebaptizing her, she was a child—and as fresh as her name. Joseph Roth, The Radetzky March.