Everything happens here more quickly and mere intensely, and with better order than in life or in prose; there is a formal elevated dullness which is part of the incantation of poetry; there are lines speaking half a second in advance what we were about to say, as if we read our thoughts before words cumbered them; and lines which we go back to read again with that heightened quality, that enchantment which keeps them glittering in the mind long afterwards. But look at the Spanish in Mexico, cried Montaigne in a burst of rage. You have oft for these two lips Neglected cassia or the natural sweets Of the spring-violet: We must imagine a beauty of stone and earth rather than of woods and greenery.
The prose style mimics his obsession in its long, winding sentences.
The family will go on, whether Sir John lives or dies.
Time is so short and I have so much to say, that unless you will allow me to place together two apparently unrelated statements and trust to you to pull them together, you must be content with a mere skeleton of the play I might have given you.
For they are Greek; we cannot tell how they sounded; they ignore the obvious sources of excitement; they owe nothing of their effect to any extravagance of expression, and certainly they throw no light upon the speaker's character or the writer's.
There were tapestries everywhere.
But the deliberate drama of the Victorian age is evidently written in a study.
It was not possible for them to be direct without being clumsy; or to speak simply of emotion without being sentimental.
A form of communicating that uses ordinary grammar and flow.
He was charitable and brave and averse from nothing.
Shelley takes twenty-one words in English to translate thirteen words of Greek-- [Greek text-6] ".
Men spoke ill of him behind his back.
Such were the fruits of a well-spent life.
There is immense variety in the Canterbury Tales, and yet, persisting underneath, one consistent type.
He treated his parents with insolence, and yet was fit for no charge of responsibility abroad.
Not one of disappointment; we are not left lamenting the superficiality, upbraiding the triviality of the novelist's art.
His Electra stands before us like a figure so tightly bound that she can only move an inch this way, an inch that.
No splendour or richness of metaphor could have saved the Agamemnon if either images or allusions of the subtlest or most decorative had got between us and the naked cry.
Johnson's Life of Gray which might well be written up in all those rooms, too humble to be called libraries, yet full of books, where the pursuit of reading is carried on by private people.