page_23 87 - vigji/cainjb GitHub Wiki
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Annotated text:
I hate seeing things like this in the paper. Bill to
Solve the Traffic Problem. Bill to improve the
Secondary Schools. I am never asked. I am not
qualified. It is all so sudden. I find it hard to
reconcile my guest with the Duchess of that
name, though I know how popular everything
to do with the Wimpole Street singer is just
now, except perhaps her singing. Toll slowly, a
match box rhythm. Bryant and, of course, May.
Rub gently, she is here, under the snow. Poor
Oscar. Nor will the ends drop off. Nor can her
eyes go out. Pure Francis Thompson. He sold
matches. But I feel I am letting the dear girl
down. There’s a contrast : Fidelia Faustina Flora
Blackwood, sister of Ebenezer Blackwood,
which of course it is. She marches by on
muscular pink hocks. The thought of that
evening in the Left Luggage Office parches me,
makes my heart beat differently. I must say I
envy Alexander having his first, and perhaps his
second, in there. I think wistfully of the poet’s
lines:
But rum alone’s the tipple,
and the heart’s delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
My guest has, I think, a Byzantine beauty, as of
a golden snake. Is she, or is she not, a little pale
about the Gills? Sanders comes into view again,
seemingly improved by his lunar visit. He props
himself and gazes out to the northwest over the
water of the little bay, drinking it all in. I
follow his gaze and see, as Henry saw when he
was at home in Woodstock, twisted trees in
front of the thick-windowed little house, and a
foreground of exquisitely coloured vegetation
with somewhat the consistency of fur stoles : a
breast of the hills under a long cloud. I have
given her nothing at all. She has let me see the
original of the dead mans letter. It is funny, it is
rather fearful, to feel a wet skeleton hand
putting hers into mine. Why, I wonder? Not
that it can really be skeleton yet ; it must
be---worse : a loathsome mass of detestable
putrescence.
Original page: page_23.pdf page_87.pdf
Original text:
I hate seeing things like this in the paper. Bill to
Solve the Traffic Problem. Bill to improve the
Secondary Schools. I am never asked. I am not
qualified. It is all so sudden. I find it hard to
reconcile my guest with the Duchess of that
name, though I know how popular everything
to do with the Wimpole Street singer is just
now, except perhaps her singing. Toll slowly, a
match box rhythm. Bryant and, of course, May.
Rub gently, she is here, under the snow. Poor
Oscar. Nor will the ends drop off. Nor can her
eyes go out. Pure Francis Thompson. He sold
matches. But I feel I am letting the dear girl
down. There’s a contrast : Fidelia Faustina Flora
Blackwood, sister of Ebenezer Blackwood,
which of course it is. She marches by on
muscular pink hocks. The thought of that
evening in the Left Luggage Office parches me,
makes my heart beat differently. I must say I
envy Alexander having his first, and perhaps his
second, in there. I think wistfully of the poet’s
lines:
But rum alone’s the tipple,
and the heart’s delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
My guest has, I think, a Byzantine beauty, as of
a golden snake. Is she, or is she not, a little pale
about the Gills? Sanders comes into view again,
seemingly improved by his lunar visit. He props
himself and gazes out to the northwest over the
water of the little bay, drinking it all in. I
follow his gaze and see, as Henry saw when he
was at home in Woodstock, twisted trees in
front of the thick-windowed little house, and a
foreground of exquisitely coloured vegetation
with somewhat the consistency of fur stoles : a
breast of the hills under a long cloud. I have
given her nothing at all. She has let me see the
original of the dead mans letter. It is funny, it is
rather fearful, to feel a wet skeleton hand
putting hers into mine. Why, I wonder? Not
that it can really be skeleton yet ; it must
be---worse : a loathsome mass of detestable
putrescence.
Italian text:
Odio vedere pubblicità simili sul giornale. Bill, il pupazzo tuttofare! Bill, il giocattolo più amato! A me non chiedono mai niente. Non ho voce in capitolo. È tutto così improvviso. Trovo difficile conciliare la mia ospite con la Duchessa che porta quel nome, benché sappia quanto sia popolare al momento tutto ciò che riguarda la poetessa di Wimpole Street, con l'eccezione forse del suo canto. Battono lenti i rintocchi, un ritmo da fabbrica di fiammiferi. Bryant e, naturalmente, May. Strofinate con delicatezza, lei è qui, sotto la neve. Povero Oscar. Non spunteranno le estremità. Non spunteranno i suoi occhi. Puro Francis Thompson. Vendeva fiammiferi. Ho la sensazione di scaricare la cara ragazza. C'è un contrasto : Fidelia Faustina Flora Blackwood, sorella di Ebezener Blackwood, cosa che naturalmente è. Incede su muscolosi garretti rosa. Mi brucia il pensiero di quella sera all'Ufficio bagagli smarriti e il mio cuore cambia battito. Ammetto che invidio Alexander che lì dentro ingolla il primo e forse anche il secondo. Penso con malinconia ai versi del poeta :
Ma solo il rum è il cicchetto e del cuore il diletto Del vecchio, ardito compagno di Henry Morgan.
La mia ospite ha, credo, una bellezza bizantina, come quella di un serpente dorato. E o non è un po' pallida? Rispunta Sanders, a quanto sembra sta meglio dopo la sua visita lunare. Si appoggia e guarda a nord-ovest oltre l'acqua della piccola baia, godendo-sela tutta. Seguo il suo sguardo e vedo, come aveva visto Henry quando era a casa a Woodstock, alberi contorti di fronte alla casetta dalle molte finestre e, Il davanti, una vegetazione dai colori squisiti che ha la consistenza delle stole di pelliccia: un parapetto delle colline sotto una lunga nuvola. Non le ho dato niente. Lei mi ha permesso di vedere l'originale della lettera del morto. E buffo, incute quasi timore, sentire la mano bagnata e ischeletrita che appoggia quella di lei nella mia. Mi chiedo il perché. Non che possa già essere scheletrita; deve esserlo - e peggio: una massa ributtante di detestabile putrescenza.