Goodreads helps you follow your favorite authors. Be the first to learn about new releases!
Start by following Ronald Frame.
Showing 1-16 of 16
“We were perfectly decorous together. It took the will of both of us. I trusted him with me, and myself with him.”
― Havisham
― Havisham
“Dancing takes a certain lightness, a spring in the step, an elasticity in the calves; a kind of joie de vivre, or alternatively a leavening element of self-proclaiming stupidity in one’s make-up.”
― Havisham
― Havisham
“A woman can only satisfy and fulfil herself, I understood, when she establishes her own authority, and see beyond equality, realising how terrible and damaging her own power - if unleashed - might be.”
― Havisham
― Havisham
“The purple haze of the wych elms; the blue flash of a kingfisher’s wings; the statuesque rightness of the milch cows in that green place chomping on the rich flood-grass.”
― Havisham
― Havisham
“Life is an enigma. We have to approach it not 'just' scientifically, but poetically. ”
― Havisham
― Havisham
“That’s what friends are for,” Sheba said.
“I don’t know what they’re for,” I told her.
“So that we don’t get out of our depth,” Mouse said.”
― Havisham
“I don’t know what they’re for,” I told her.
“So that we don’t get out of our depth,” Mouse said.”
― Havisham
“Martin suggests, let's see Chartres on the way back.
The cathedral with its bleached stone and green roofs is visible across miles of flat fields and popular breaks. Approaching it through the dog's leg alleyways of the old town, its proportions are dizzying. Pigeons wheel about its height like cliff birds.
The afternoon light begins to go; a battery of floodlights makes an unearthly theatre of spires, pinnacles and buttresses.
Martin quotes Ruskin. ' "Trees of stone" '.
Inside the cathedral is humbling, it's like walking into the belly of a whale. The glass is a deep rich crimson of blue, eliminating what daylight's left. Furtive figures scurry off into angles of shadow. The medieval darkness is pricked with lighted candles.
Martin says it's like Debussy's 'Drowned Cathedral'. 'La Cathédrale Engloutie'. I don't know it, but he's right, exactly right.
The weeping wax smells cloyingly sweet. While a priest intones, worshippers kneel and pray in whispers - and it seems to me that what they're begging from the mother of God is hope, and luck, and to be spared this survival game, living from minute to minute to minute.
It's what drowning must be like. You find you've somersaulted head-over-heels and upside-down and you're travelling backwards through a vast, lightless place.
So much sweet, lulling darkness in the middle of the world, it 'is' a kind of dying...”
― A long weekend with Marcel Proust: Seven stories and a novel
The cathedral with its bleached stone and green roofs is visible across miles of flat fields and popular breaks. Approaching it through the dog's leg alleyways of the old town, its proportions are dizzying. Pigeons wheel about its height like cliff birds.
The afternoon light begins to go; a battery of floodlights makes an unearthly theatre of spires, pinnacles and buttresses.
Martin quotes Ruskin. ' "Trees of stone" '.
Inside the cathedral is humbling, it's like walking into the belly of a whale. The glass is a deep rich crimson of blue, eliminating what daylight's left. Furtive figures scurry off into angles of shadow. The medieval darkness is pricked with lighted candles.
Martin says it's like Debussy's 'Drowned Cathedral'. 'La Cathédrale Engloutie'. I don't know it, but he's right, exactly right.
The weeping wax smells cloyingly sweet. While a priest intones, worshippers kneel and pray in whispers - and it seems to me that what they're begging from the mother of God is hope, and luck, and to be spared this survival game, living from minute to minute to minute.
It's what drowning must be like. You find you've somersaulted head-over-heels and upside-down and you're travelling backwards through a vast, lightless place.
So much sweet, lulling darkness in the middle of the world, it 'is' a kind of dying...”
― A long weekend with Marcel Proust: Seven stories and a novel
“You care for empresses and queens?” I asked him.
“No. For tragic heroines.”
“Why them?”
“Suffering and courageous women who deserve their own immortality.”
― Havisham
“No. For tragic heroines.”
“Why them?”
“Suffering and courageous women who deserve their own immortality.”
― Havisham
“Why d’you think she did it?”
I told him I had no idea. He seemed disappointed that I shouldn’t know.
“A broken heart,” I suggested.
“Do people suffer so much?”
“For love? Oh, I imagine so.”
“To drown herself?”
“Why does that astonish you? Dido threw herself on the flames.”
“In legend.”
“And real life’s different?” I asked.”
― Havisham
I told him I had no idea. He seemed disappointed that I shouldn’t know.
“A broken heart,” I suggested.
“Do people suffer so much?”
“For love? Oh, I imagine so.”
“To drown herself?”
“Why does that astonish you? Dido threw herself on the flames.”
“In legend.”
“And real life’s different?” I asked.”
― Havisham
