Without Lifting A Finger

Sorger had gone outside with the cat, which was following him and seemed that day “to know a thing or two.” On the beach, sticks of driftwood had been set down, or perhaps been accidentally washed ashore, in a circle. It occurred to him that the Indians might have made these circles to demarcate themselves from this holiday and what it commemorated, and at that point the whole settlement struck him as a secret magic circle in which he, now initiated, was making his last rounds.

Baby Blue (Little Blue Heron) @ Bolsa Chica. He's back and as beautiful as ever. I didn't get many shots, but we had him close for a while before he flew to the Pocket and out of range. I'm sure we'll meet again.:) #rlswihart13 #socal #socalbirds #wintervisitors #bolsachica #heronsofinstagram #littleblueheron #babyblue #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 🇺🇦 🇮🇱 🇵🇸 🙏🎈

Even in his work, he preferred drawing to photography, because it was only through drawing that he came to understand the landscape in all its forms; he was invariably surprised to see how many forms revealed themselves in what seemed at first sight to be a dull and monotonous vista. A place took on meaning for him only when he drew it line for line—as faithfully as possible, without the schematizations and omissions that had become customary in his science—and it was only then that he could claim with a clear conscience, if only to himself, to have been there.

The Locally World Famous Wood Thrush @ Irvine Regional Park. Hard to work any magic with my little Brownie in the Leaf & Shadow Kingdom of this beautiful bird, but I can say I saw it (and may go back for more).♥️🎈 #rlswihart13 #bravenewbirds #voyagers #woodthrusheincalifornia #woodthrushesofinstagram #irvineregionalpark #kingdombetweenLandM #staythewinter #GOBLUE #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 🇺🇦♥️🎈

“But to go back to our first talk (for I suppose this is our last one)—when you entered that cave, who did follow you, or did no one follow you? Can you now say? I don’t like it left in air.” “Let us call it the guide,” she said indifferently. “It will never be known. It’s as if I ran my finger along that polished wall in the dark, and cannot get further. I am up against something, and so are you. Mrs. Moore—she did know.” “How could she have known what we don’t?” “Telepathy, possibly.” The pert, meagre word fell to the ground. Telepathy? What an explanation! Better withdraw it, and Adela did so. She was at the end of her spiritual tether, and so was he. Were there worlds beyond which they could never touch, or did all that is possible enter their consciousness? They could not tell. They only realized that their outlook was more or less similar, and found in this a satisfaction. Perhaps life is a mystery, not a muddle; they could not tell. Perhaps the hundred Indias which fuss and squa

Miss Quested had renounced her own people. Turning from them, she was drawn into a mass of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them towards the public exit of the court. The faint, indescribable smell of the bazaars invaded her, sweeter than a London slum, yet more disquieting: a tuft of scented cotton wool, wedged in an old man’s ear, fragments of pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils—the Scented East of tradition, but blended with human sweat as if a great king had been entangled in ignominy and could not free himself, or as if the heat of the sun had boiled and fried all the glories of the earth into a single mess.

Here Mr. McBryde paused. He wanted to keep the proceedings as clean as possible, but Oriental Pathology, his favourite theme, lay around him, and he could not resist it. Taking off his spectacles, as was his habit before enunciating a general truth, he looked into them sadly, and remarked that the darker races are physically attracted by the fairer, but not vice versa—not a matter for bitterness this, not a matter for abuse, but just a fact which any scientific observer will confirm. “Even when the lady is so uglier than the gentleman?”

 

 

The remark that did him most harm at the club was a silly aside to the effect that the so-called white races are really pinko-grey. He only said this to be cheery, he did not realize that “white” has no more to do with a colour than “God save the King” with a god, and that it is the height of impropriety to consider what it does connote. The pinko-grey male whom he addressed was subtly scandalized; his sense of insecurity was awoken, and he communicated it to the rest of the herd.

Used to read a lot of E M Forster, partly inspired by all the films. Never read A Passage to India (but saw the film), so I thought I'd give it a try. Excerpt: “Yes, as Mrs. McBryde was saying, but it’s much more the Anglo-Indians themselves who are likely to get on Adela’s nerves. She doesn’t think they behave pleasantly to Indians, you see.” “What did I tell you?” he exclaimed, losing his gentle manner. “I knew it last week. Oh, how like a woman to worry over a side-issue!” She forgot about Adela in her surprise. “A side-issue, a side-issue?” she repeated. “How can it be that?” “We’re not out here for the purpose of behaving pleasantly!” “What do you mean?” “What I say. We’re out here to do justice and keep the peace. Them’s my sentiments. India isn’t a drawing-room.” “Your sentiments are those of a god,” she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her. Trying to recover his temper, he said, “India likes gods.” “And Englishmen like posing as go