Vanillaphant
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2014
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A while ago, we had a thread on General Discussion that was dedicated to people’s favourite literary quotes…
I thought it’d be fun to have a more casual, ongoing thread where people can share excerpts as and when they come across them. So if you read a bit of prose that you like – whether it’s one line or one page! – you can set it down here for others to peruse at their leisure.
I’ve been giving J. B. Priestley a go recently (Festival At Farbridge). Good stuff. Funny! This bit is about the Mayor of Farbridge sitting contentedly in his “Mayor’s parlour”.
The objective world, that smoothly treacherous scene, gave no sign that trouble might be on its way. All was well, it seemed. His Worship was a non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, otherwise he might have puffed away in great contentment; as it was, he gave himself a boiled sweet, and sucked it with noisy abandon.
After a few minutes of this lotus-eating flavoured with peppermint, the Town Clerk arrived. Mr. Meare was a small man, neat as an expensive doll, with an over-sized head and a wistful expression, so that, with his rather dim colouring, he looked not unlike a watercolour sketch of J. M. Barrie. He spoke with a certain nervous precision, rather like a don, but as he was nearly always both timid and anxious he was apt to leave sentences and even phrases trembling unfinished in the air; so that listening to him was like hearing a precise little judge summing up a difficult case, but hearing it on a very faulty radio set.
I thought it’d be fun to have a more casual, ongoing thread where people can share excerpts as and when they come across them. So if you read a bit of prose that you like – whether it’s one line or one page! – you can set it down here for others to peruse at their leisure.
I’ve been giving J. B. Priestley a go recently (Festival At Farbridge). Good stuff. Funny! This bit is about the Mayor of Farbridge sitting contentedly in his “Mayor’s parlour”.
The objective world, that smoothly treacherous scene, gave no sign that trouble might be on its way. All was well, it seemed. His Worship was a non-smoker as well as a teetotaller, otherwise he might have puffed away in great contentment; as it was, he gave himself a boiled sweet, and sucked it with noisy abandon.
After a few minutes of this lotus-eating flavoured with peppermint, the Town Clerk arrived. Mr. Meare was a small man, neat as an expensive doll, with an over-sized head and a wistful expression, so that, with his rather dim colouring, he looked not unlike a watercolour sketch of J. M. Barrie. He spoke with a certain nervous precision, rather like a don, but as he was nearly always both timid and anxious he was apt to leave sentences and even phrases trembling unfinished in the air; so that listening to him was like hearing a precise little judge summing up a difficult case, but hearing it on a very faulty radio set.