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Thread: Apospasmata Thread

  1. #736
    problem child
    Join Date
    Feb 2016

    Default Virginia Woolf - Mrs Dalloway

    So they returned to the most exalted of mankind; the criminal who faced his judges; the victim exposed on the heights; the fugitive; the drowned sailor; the poet of the immortal ode; the Lord who had gone from life to death; to Septimus Warren Smith, who sat in the arm-chair under the skylight staring at a photograph of Lady Bradshaw in Court dress, muttering messages about beauty.

    "We have had our little talk," said Sir William.

    "He says you are very, very ill," Rezia cried.

    "We have been arranging that you should go into a home," said Sir William.

    "One of Holmes's homes?" sneered Septimus.

    The fellow made a distasteful impression. For there was in Sir William, whose father had been a tradesman, a natural respect for breeding and clothing, which shabbiness nettled; again, more profoundly, there was in Sir William, who had never had time for reading, a grudge, deeply buried, against cultivated people who came into his room and intimated that doctors, whose profession is a constant strain upon all the highest faculties, are not educated men.

    "One of my homes, Mr. Warren Smith," he said, "where we will teach you to rest."

    And there was just one thing more.

    He was quite certain that when Mr. Warren Smith was well he was the last man in the world to frighten his wife. But he had talked of killing himself.

    "We all have our moments of depression," said Sir William.

    Once you fall, Septimus repeated to himself, human nature is on you. Holmes and Bradshaw are on you. They scour the desert. They fly screaming into the wilderness. The rack and the thumbscrew are applied. Human nature is remorseless.

  2. #737
    problem child
    Join Date
    Feb 2016

    Default Virginia Woolf - A Room of One’s Own

    Life for both sexes - and I looked at them (through a restaurant window while waiting for my lunch to be served), shouldering their way along the pavement - is arduous, difficult, a perpetual struggle. It calls for gigantic courage and strength. More than anything, perhaps, creatures of illusion as we are, it calls for confidence in oneself. Without self-confidence we are babes in the cradle. And how can we generate this imponderable quality, which is yet so invaluable, most quickly? By thinking that other people are inferior to oneself. By feeling that one has some innate superiority - it may be wealth, or rank, a straight nose, or the portrait of a grandfather by Romney - for there is no end to the pathetic devices of the human imagination - over other people. Hence the enormous importance to a patriarch who has to conquer, who has to rule, of feeling that great numbers of people, half the human race indeed, are by nature inferior to himself. It must indeed be one of the great sources of his power....Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle. The glories of all our wars would be on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheepskins or whatever simple ornament took our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would never have existed. The Czar and the Kaiser would never have worn their crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilised societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men.

    Quote Originally Posted by morphine View Post
    μου έδωσε η μάνα μου προχθές το μπρούτζινο καβαλάρη, λέγοντάς μου πως περιγράφει την πολιορκία του λένινγκραντ καταπληκτικά, και πως θα τρελαθώ. Μόλις είδα ότι το'χει γράψει γυναίκα άρχισα να βρίζω, αλλά μου είπε να μην είμαι χαζή. Τελικά δίκιο είχα, πούτσα είναι, 80 σελίδες κι ακόμα φλερτάκια φορεματάκια και περιόδους περιγράφει. ΓΚΟΜΕΝΕΣ.
    Βάζω και στοίχημα ότι κι εκεί που θα περιγράφει πώς μοιράζονταν σαρανταδύο άτομα μία φέτα ψωμί, η πρωταγωνίστρια θα πεθαίνει απ'την πείνα και ταυτόχρονα θα αγαπιέται παράφορα με τον εκλεκτό της καρδιάς της και θα ανυπομονεί να τελειώσει ο πόλεμος για να παντρευτούν

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