I never had the sense that there was an end. That there was a retirement or that there was a jackpot.
Was it possible that some men possessed so great a force of character that they could stamp themselves upon their words such that no matter where they were read, or when, or in what language, their own distinctive tones would always be heard?
Seth Bahram Modi (Barry Moddie) in River of Smoke by Amitav Ghosh.
. . . to the subway, I saw a man on the ground. He sat on the sidewalk, under trees, with his feet out to the quiet street.—
rünty reader (@runtyreader) January 08, 2014
Four others were there: a young man busy with a phone, a young woman, a baby in a pram, a girl who was with the woman.—
George Szirtes (@george_szirtes) January 08, 2014
There was a stillness in the scene, as in an altarpiece. There was a helpless air in those who stood around him.—
; (@murab) January 08, 2014
The seated man was closer to sixty than to fifty, dressed in an ordinary way, a button-down long-sleeved shirt, trousers.—
Chioma Ogwuegbu (@AfricanCeleb) January 08, 2014
His right hand was inside his shirt. He clutched at his heart and winced.—
ST (@seyitaylor) January 08, 2014
Have you read something wonderful this week? Please share, I’d love to check it out!