Wednesday, August 20, 2008
I am falling in love with the melancholy late Victorian/Edwardian sense that we can never be fully alive.
This from Conrad's Victory: 'But even then there still lingered in him a sense of incompleteness not altogether overcome - which, it seemed, nothing would ever overcome - the fatal imperfection of all the gifts of life, which makes them a delusion and a snare.'
And this from Edward Thomas's Glory: 'I cannot bite the day to the core.'
Why did they suddenly feel this?
Posted by Bryan Appleyard at 7:43 am