The moth and woolf
The death of a moth dillard
Suddenly, from an unexpected quarter, help appeared. On a winter's night like this, when nature has been at pains to polish and preen herself, it brings back the prettiest trophies, breaks off little lumps of emerald and coral as if the whole earth were made of precious stone. I cannot hold this—I cannot express this—I am overcome by it—I am mastered. What exactly is interpreted by the actions of the moth and the events that occur is a matter of opinion. Also the fields are redeemed. At such sights the nerves of the spine seem to stand erect; a sudden flare is brandished in our eyes; a question is asked which is never answered. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Love-making is going on sibilantly, seductively in the darker places of the room behind thick green curtains.
But this is London, we are reminded; high among the bare trees are hung oblong frames of reddish yellow light—windows; there are points of brilliance burning steadily like low stars—lamps; this empty ground, which holds the country in it and its peace, is only a London square, set about by offices and houses where at this hour fierce lights burn over maps, over documents, over desks where clerks sit turning with wetted forefinger the files of endless correspondences; or more suffusedly the firelight wavers and the lamplight falls upon the privacy of some drawing-room, its easy chairs, its papers, its china, its inlaid table, and the figure of a woman, accurately measuring out the precise number of spoons of tea which——She looks at the door as if she heard a ring downstairs and somebody asking, is she in?
For she was highly conscious of folly, of vice, of pretention. Brown disclosed the following astonishing story.
Her body was wrapped round the pain as a damp sheet is folded over a wire. Thus we live in her presence, and often fall, as with living people, into unconsciousness.
If he was the greatest of English letter writers it was not only thanks to his gifts but to his immense good fortune. As the foxhunter hunts in order to preserve the breed of foxes, and the golfer plays in order that open spaces may be preserved from the builders, so when the desire comes upon us to go street rambling the pencil does for a pretext, and getting up we say: "Really I must buy a pencil," as if under cover of this excuse we could indulge safely in the greatest pleasure of town life in winter—rambling the streets of London.
What he could do he did. For if we could stand there where we stood six months ago, should we not be again as we were then—calm, aloof, content?
The death of the moth questions and answers
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. The Death of the Moth Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. Who had cried? Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. The Second Picture In the middle of the night a loud cry rang through the village. But as a letter writer he buffets his way among the crowd, holding out a hand to each generation in turn—laughed at, criticized, despised, admired, but always in touch with the living. The mind in reading spins a web from scene to scene, compounds a background from apples falling, and the toll of a church bell, and an owl's fantastic flight which keeps the play together. The moth is not the main focus; it is the inedibility of death itself. She is best known for her novels. That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. The waters of travel and adventure seem to break upon little islands of serious effort and lifelong industry stood in jagged column upon the floor.
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