Quote (Svartermetalisk @ Apr 29 2016 10:54pm)
I'm trying to read Virgina Woolf in English but her sentences are too fucking long for my weak reading game. I mean would you look at this shit.
And everywhere, though it was still so early, there was
a beating, a stirring of galloping ponies, tapping of cricket
bats; Lords, Ascot, Ranelagh and all the rest of it; wrapped in
the soft mesh of the grey-blue morning air, which, as the day
wore on, would unwind them, and set down on their lawns and
pitches the bouncing ponies, whose forefeet just struck the
ground and up they sprung, the whirling young men, and
laughing girls in their transparent muslins who, even now,
after dancing all night, were taking their absurd woolly dogs
for a run; and even now, at this hour, discreet old dowagers
were shooting out in their motor cars on errands of mystery;
and the shopkeepers were fidgeting in their windows with their
paste and diamonds, their lovely old sea-green brooches in
eighteenth-century settings to tempt Americans (but one must
economise, not buy things rashly for Elizabeth), and she, too,
loving it as she did with an absurd and faithful passion, being
part of it, since her people were courtiers once in the time of
the Georges, she, too, was going that very night to kindle and
illuminate; to give her party.
Dang iöl reaaf ut later