We children learned to understand hat messages; a jaunty angle brought lollies in the pockets and laughter at the table, brow lower – serious times, a need for long discussions before homework and bed. Lower still – late home, the stumble in the hall and my mother, frozen faced, serving the meal in silence, while little ones, bewildered, dared not drop a spoon or spill their milk.
The cafes had closed their doors to the drinkers and domino players. The lounging Arab boys had deserted the sandy Place de la Marine. The Garden of Allah (bk. I, ch. I) ROBERT SMYTHE HICHENS English (1864 – 1950)
Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose. J B S Haldane, Possible Worlds, title essay (1927)
For everything there is a season, And a time for every matter under heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; A time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; A time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together; A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing; A time to seek, and a time to lose; A time to keep, and a time to throw away; A time to tear, and a time to sew; A time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate, A time for war, and a time for peace.
“She walks–the lady of my delight– A sheperdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.” Alice Meynell
“It is always sad when someone leaves home, unless they are simply going around the corner and will return in a few minutes with ice-cream sandwiches.” Lemony Snicket.
The most terrible thing about materialism, even more terrible than its proneness to violence, is its boredom, from which sex, alcohol, drugs, all devices for putting out the accusing light of reason and suppressing the unrealizable aspirations of love, offer a prospect of deliverance. Malcolm Muggeridge