Professional Documents
Culture Documents
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In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the
river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were pebbles and
boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and
blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they
raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too were dusty and the
leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along the road and the dust
rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers marching and afterward
the road bare and white except for the leaves.
~ Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
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His room smelled of cooked grease, Lysol, and age.
~ Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
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The smell of cooked grease, age, and Lysol permeated the room.
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It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
~ George Orwell, 1984
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The clocks were striking thirteen on an April day, bright and cold.
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Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour
dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
~ Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady
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The depressed person was in terrible and unceasing emotional pain, and the
impossibility of sharing or articulating this pain was itself a component of the pain and
a contributing factor in its essential horror.
~David Foster Wallace, The Depressed Person
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When warm weather came, Baby Suggs, holy, followed by every black man, woman,
and child who could make it through, took her great heart to the Clearing--a wide-open
place cut deep in the woods nobody knew for what at the end of the path known only
to deer and whoever cleared the land in the first place.
~ Toni Morrison, Beloved
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It satisfies every childlike curiosity, every muted desire, whatever there is in him of the
scientist, the poet, the primitive seer, the watcher of fire and shooting stars, whatever
obsessions eat at the night side of his mind, whatever sweet and dreamy yearnings he
has ever felt for nameless places faraway, whatever earth sense he possesses, the
neural pulse of some wilder awareness, a sympathy for beasts, whatever belief in an
immanent vital force, the Lord of Creation, whatever secret harboring of the idea of
human oneness, whatever wishfulness and simplehearted hope, whatever of too much
and not enough, all at once and little by little, whatever burning urge to escape
responsibility and routine, escape his own overspecialization, the circumscribed and
inward spiraling self, whatever remnants of his boyish longing to fly, his dreams of
strange spaces and eerie heights, his fantasies of happy death, whatever indolent and
sybaritic leanings, lotus-eater, smoker of grasses and herbs, blue-eyed gazer into
spaceall these are satisfied, all collected and massed in that living body, the sight he
sees from the window.
~ Don DeLillo, "Human Moments in World War III," 1983
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Cinderella
Ball, 1941,
by Weegee
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Three
Women, by
Pablo Picasso
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Time to write!