The House in Dormer Forest

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George H. Doran, 1921 - English fiction - 288 pages

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Page 9 - ... the world. When the bats slipped from their purlieus in the cobwebby outbuildings and climbed toward this rim, they had to ascend step after grey step of the windless air, and only attained their ambition after long flying. From these heights, in fine weather, the house and its gardens lay open to the view, small but clear, beside the white thread that was Dormer brook. The place had been patched and enlarged by successive generations, very much as man's ideas are altered, the result in both...
Page 157 - ... in the silver clouds. Yet, when the solemn wind begins to move along the mountain, walking in the heavy trees; when every dewy leaf has a gleam of recognition for the wet-eyed stars, does there not come upon us a sweetness greater than the fragrance of flowers, a desire - passionate and vague - for a beauty that is not less real because its revelations are subtle and its essence beyond the reach of the senses? It was for this that Enoch, all unconsciously, waited with upturned face caressed by...
Page 18 - She had lived so long by fear and not by love, that her capacity for cruelty had grown in proportion to her capacity for panic. She had for so many years been trying to be like other people, that she was now like nothing in heaven or earth. For the more a soul conforms to the sanity of others, the more does it become insane. By continually doing violence to its own laws, it finally loses the power of governing itself.
Page 279 - "Yes, Michael." ' "In poverty and discomfort? In crude places beyond the sea? In the squalor of big cities?" ' "You make it all very hard, Michael." ' "Life is hard." ' "Well, then, yes." ' "Risking death?" ' "Michael, Michael! Let me be happy tonight! Let me!" ' "Risking death?" His voice was harsh. "Do you think I shall let you say 'yes, yes!
Page 260 - Amber's ideas of God were vague, and shadowy. The moment she tried to materialize them, they vanished. But now she felt, with a shock of reality, that there was more here, on this airy hill, than could be seen or touched or heard.
Page 172 - Dormer in the past, had made and were still making springes for the souls of people like himself. Because his soul was alive and would fly they wished to cage it. Because it sang its own song they wanted to kill it. Spiritually they were cannibals. Jasper had a particular passion for freedom, a wild, bird-like need of personal liberty. If he could not grow as he would, live as he willed, something told him that he would cease to grow, cease to exist. 'I'd go away to-night,' he thought, 'if it wasn't...
Page 255 - She felt like an actor in an unreal play. She looked round for some convincing thing which, by its quiet linking of yesterday with to-day, might bring her the grief she ought to feel and could not feel. But there were no homely things. This was no longer a forest of familiar trees, carpeted with friendly flowers, under known skies. It was an unknown country -that which encircles the world of fact, holding it as a demon might hold a crystal glass. Great pilkrs stood vaguely ranked on every side.
Page 70 - A crowd of people shut up together in one house, one creed, one strait view of life, must eventually wear each other out. Good nature is ground down by constant friction. Hatred leaps out like sparks from flint and iron. Society thinks that mistakes are made and crimes committed through the human soul being too much itself, going its own way. But crimes really happen through the soul being too little itself, striving to conform, or being crushed into conformity.
Page 278 - Amber thought of June mornings when polished birds with flaming yellow bills made large tracks in the dewwhite grass. She thought of the subtle changes of the seasons, breathlessly fair, not one to be spared. She remembered dawns that bloomed like a hedge of roses above the amethyst hills, and the bank of white violets which had never missed her yet in April.
Page 188 - A breath of scented air came from the hilltops and stole among the branches. That which had form, and knew the mortality which is in form, trembled before that which passed, formless and immortal. It seemed content to linger here for a little while, before the momentary existence of this visible beauty slipped into nothingness; but it did not commit its whole self to any creature of matter, neither to dew-dark petal nor gold-eyed bird. It passed in the wood, as sunlight passes, or as the wind goes...

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