I spent a long while in each one of these rooms, simply furnished, not without a certain elegance, and retaining the charm of a house that wasso strangely loved by the people who lived in it. The kitchen with itsclassic rocking chair near the chimney, the common room with its window fullof books and its big square table on which so many dreams were written outby the genius children. The fantastic novel in which each one had a handand which kept them in suspense as if it were true. It is impossible notto be affected by the obsessive memory of these girls who would grow upcut off from the world and who never had a doubt about what they were goingto add to the glory of their country. All of them defied the destiny comingto seek them out one after another. Only the pitiful brother, who usedto shed what were considered unworthy silent tears and had not cried lackedcourage. Beyond this narrow setting, beyond the cemetery and the neo-gothic chapel lies the little city which has not changed, clean and purposefulwith its well-kept little shops running along the hilly streets. But behindthe presbytery where the Brontës lived are the , vast undulatingtracts, the kingdom of the wind, interrupted by little valleys where silencehides like a thief. These heights called to the despairof translators, the huge voice, sometimes deaf, the long, sinister howling,sometimes distraught, menacing cut across them like a moan coming from anotherworld. Why be surprised that it inspired these women possessed by the demonof writing? Let us add to that the presence of the dead just in front ofthe house and their mute commentary on life; you would have to be very poorlyendowed to avoid giving in to such imperatives.]
A factor which made matters much worse than they were already was the removal of people from the country into the city, and this particularly affected the incomers. There were no houses for them, and, living as they did during the hot season in badly ventilated huts, they died like flies. The bodies of the dying were heaped one on top of the other, and half-dead creatures could be seen staggering about in the streets or flocking around the fountains in their desire for water. The temples in which they took up their quarters were full of the dead bodies of people who had died inside them. For the catastrophe was so overwhelming that men, not knowing what would happen next to them, became indifferent to every rule of religion or of law. All the funeral ceremonies which used to be observed were now disorganized, and they buried the dead as best they could. Many people, lacking the necessary means of burial because so many deaths had already occurred in their households, adopted the most shameless methods. They would arrive first at a funeral pyre that had been made by others, put their own dead upon it and set it alight; or, finding another pyre burning, they would throw the corpse that they were carrying on top of the other one and go away.
I would always be so excited to step on the soft, white, sandy beach.
"So let us press forward. Let us resolve to conduct ourselves insuch a way that our children's children will read about the 'Spirit of Kyoto,'and remember well the place and time where humankind first chose to embarkon a long-term sustainable relationship between our civilization and theEarth environment."
- Albert Gore, Jr., Vice-President of the United States, at the 1997 conference on Global Warming in Kyoto, Japan.
Descriptive writing on a beach example: ..
I did not learn my attractive fellow student's views on Descartes. The only person in the classroom who showed genuine enthusiasm for Monsieur Descartes was the professor. He was the stereotypic philosophy professor, distant, obtuse, and rather sadly lonely. Those who dwell on the greatest dead minds seem out of place in the living world, or what the world looked like to a provincial young woman. At about the time the professor became briefly animated, and this was because of Descartes, I was struggling with a decision to stay in or drop the class. We had tackled Spinoza and a couple of others and I felt I could get my mind around those fellows but Descartes was elusive. The "cogito ergo sum" sounded a bit self-serving and fraudulent to me, but I hadn't the confidence to offer the class my opinion. Distractions were increasing daily: Fair Lancelot was beginning to follow me in my thoughts after I left class and that did feel unfaithful to Mark. Students around the nation were writhing in sorrow and rage after the Kent State murders, and even our isolated college, more attractive to future foresters thanfuture politicians, was faced with having to react to this outrage againstperfect youth. I now thoroughly disliked Descartes and it was my annoyancewith his arrogance that forced my hand. I dropped the class.