The storm lashes us, out of the confusion of grey and yellow the hail of splinters whips forth the childlike cries of the wounded, and in the night shattered life groans painfully into silence. Our hands are earth, our bodies clay and our eyes pools of rain. We do not know whether we are still alive.
I now warn the reader not to mock me and my mental daze. It is easy for him and me to decipher now a past destiny; but a destiny in the making is, believe me, not one of those honest mystery stories where all you have to do is keep an eye on the clues. In my youth I once read a French detective tale where the clues were actually in italics; but that is not McFate's way—even if one does learn to recognize certain obscure indications.
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Lydia's society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
You might hear some ugly talk about it at school, but do one thing for me if you will: you just hold your head high and keep those fists down. No matter what anybody says to you, don’t you let ’em get your goat. Try fighting with your head for a change . . . it’s a good one, even if it does resist learning.
Major Major's father was a sober God-fearing man whose idea of a good joke was to lie about his age. He was a long-limbed farmer, a God-fearing, freedom-loving, law-abiding rugged individualist who held that federal aid to anyone but farmers was creeping socialism. He advocated thrift and hard work and disapproved of loose women who turned him down.
Things become quieter, but the cries do not cease. What’s up, Albert? I ask. A couple of columns over there got it in the neck. The cries continued. It is not men, they could not cry so terribly. Wounded horses, says Kat. It’s unendurable. It is the moaning of the world, it is the martyred creation, wild with anguish, filled with terror, and groaning.
تذكر أنني قلت لك أنه كان 'لأكلي' بعض العادات الشخصية القذرة؟ وكذلك ستراد ليتر وإن كان ذلك بشكل مختلف وعلى نحو غير ظاهر. فمظهره لا غبار عليه ولكن كن عليك أن ترى موسى الحلاقة الذي يحلق به ذقنه، فقد كان صدئاً وملوثاً برغاوي الصابون الجافة والشعر وغير ذلك، لم ينظفه قط. كان يبدو دائماً حسن المظهر عندما ينتهي من ارتداء ملابسه، غير أنه كان له عاداته القذرة غير الظاهرة، تستطيع أن تكشفها إذا عرفته أنت كما أعرفه أنا. والسبب الذي يجعله حسن المظهر عندما ينتهي من ارتداء ملابسه إنه كان يعشق ذاته. كان يعتقد أنه أوسم فتى في الجزء الغربي من الكرة الأرضية. كان وسيما جدا، أعترف بهذا، ولكن وسامته كانت من ذلك النوع الذي يجعل أبويك إن رأيا صورته في كتاب المدرسة السنوي يتساءلان "من ذلك الفتى"؟ كانت وسامته من هذا النوع.