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THE WORM OUROBOROS

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Author Topic: THE WORM OUROBOROS  (Read 1344 times)
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #15 on: April 26, 2010, 01:12:10 pm »

Mr. Eddison's prose never plays him false; it rises and falls with his subject, and is tender, humorous, sour, precipitate and terrific as the occasion warrants. How nicely the Kaga danced for the Red Foliot.

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #16 on: April 26, 2010, 01:12:22 pm »

"Foxy-red above, but with black bellies, round furry faces, innocent amber eyes and great soft paws. . . . On a sudden the music ceased, and the dancers were still, and standing side by side, paw in furry paw, they bowed shyly to the company, and the Red Foliot called them to, him, and kissed them on the mouth, and sent them to their seats."

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #17 on: April 26, 2010, 01:12:29 pm »

"Corund leaned on the parapet and shaded his eyes with his hand, that was broad as a smoked haddock, and covered on the back with yellow hairs growing somewhat sparsely as the hairs on the skin of a young elephant."

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #18 on: April 26, 2010, 01:12:40 pm »

"A dismal tempest suddenly surprised them. For forty days it swept them in hail and sleet over wide wallowing ocean, without a star, without a course."

p. xxi

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #19 on: April 26, 2010, 01:12:52 pm »

"Night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them."

"Dawn came like a lily, saffron-hued, smirked with smoke-gray streaks, that slanted from the north."

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #20 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:01 pm »

"He was naked to the waist, his hair, breast and arms to the armpits clotted and adrop with blood and in his hands two bloody daggers."

Quotations can give some idea of the rhythm of his sentences, but it can give none of the massive sweep and intensity of his narrative. Milton fell in love with the devil because the dramatic action lay with him, and, in this book,
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #21 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:11 pm »

Mr. Eddison trounces his devils for being naughty (the word "bad" has not significance here), but he trounces the Wizard King and his kingdom with affection and delight. What gorgeous monsters are Gorice the Twelfth and Corund and Corinius. The reader will not easily forget them; nor Gorice's great antagonist Lord Juss; nor the marvellous traitor, Lord
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #22 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:19 pm »

Gro, with whom the author was certainly in love; nor the great fights and the terrible fighters Lords Brandoch Daha and Goldry Bluszco, and a world of others and their wives; nor will he forget the mountain Koshtra Pivrarcha, that had to be climbed, and was climbed--as dizzying a feat as literature can tell of.
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #23 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:30 pm »

"So huge he was that even here at six miles distance the eye might not at a glance behold him, but must sweep back and forth as over a broad landscape, from the ponderous roots of the mountain, where they sprang black and sheer from the glacier up the vast face, where buttress was piled upon buttress, and tower upon tower, in a blinding radiance of ice-hung precipice and snow-filled gully, to the lone heights where, like spears menacing high heaven, the white teeth of the summit-ridge cleft the sky."

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #24 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:35 pm »

Mr. Eddison's prose does not derive from the English Bible. His mind has more affinities with Celtic imaginings and method, and his work is Celtic in that it is inspired

p. xxii

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #25 on: April 26, 2010, 01:13:45 pm »

by beauty and daring rather than by thoughts and moralities. He might be Scotch or Irish: scarcely the former, for, while Scotland loves full-mouthed verse, she, like England, is prose-shy. But, from whatever heaven Mr. Eddison come, he has added a masterpiece to English literature.

JAMES STEPHENS

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #26 on: April 26, 2010, 01:14:04 pm »

p. 1

The Induction
THERE was a man named Lessingham dwelt in an old low house in Wastdale, set in a gray old garden where yew-trees flourished that had seen Vikings in Copeland in their seedling time. Lily and rose and larkspur bloomed in the borders, and
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #27 on: April 26, 2010, 01:14:19 pm »

begonias with blossoms big as saucers, red and white and pink and lemon-colour, in the beds before the porch. Climbing roses, honeysuckle, clematis, and the scarlet flame-flower scrambled up the walls. Thick woods were on every side without the garden, with a gap north-eastward opening on the desolate lake and the great fells beyond it: Gable rearing his crag-bound head against the sky from behind the straight clean outline of the Screes.
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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #28 on: April 26, 2010, 01:14:31 pm »

Cool long shadows stole across the tennis lawn. The air was golden. Doves murmured in the trees; two chaffinches played on the near post of the net; a little water-wagtail scurried along the path. A French window stood open to the garden, showing darkly a dining-room panelled with old oak, its Jacobean table bright with flowers and silver and cut glass and Wedgwood dishes heaped with fruit: greengages, peaches, and green muscat grapes. Lessingham lay back in a hammock-chair watching through the blue smoke of an after-dinner cigar

p. 2

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Michelle Sandberg
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« Reply #29 on: April 26, 2010, 01:14:51 pm »

the warm light on the Gloire de Dijon roses that clustered about the bedroom window overhead. He had her hand in his. This was their House.

"Should we finish that chapter of Njal?" she said.

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