Aestheticism · Author · British Literature · Critic · Dramatist · Irish Culture · Paraphrase · Playwright · Poet · Quote · Short Story Writer · Victorian · Writer

Oscar Wilde

Only one thing remains infinitely fascinating to me, the mystery of moods. To be master of these moods is exquisite, to be mastered by them more exquisite still. Sometimes I think that the artistic life is a long and lovely suicide, and am not sorry that it is so. And much of this I fancy… Continue reading Oscar Wilde

Rate this:

British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Contemporary · English Literature · Excerpt · Fiction · Historical Fiction · Novel · Paraphrase · Passage · Quote · Uncategorized · Uncompleted

Evelyn Waugh

Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all. — Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited. (Back Bay Books; Edition Unstated edition, September 1999) Originally published 1945.

Rate this:

British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Irish Literary Revival · Irish Literature · Poetry · Romanticism · Uncategorized

W.B. Yeats

I AM worn out with dreams; A weather-worn, marble triton Among the streams; And all day long I look Upon this lady’s beauty As though I had found in book A pictured beauty, Pleased to have filled the eyes Or the discerning ears, Delighted to be but wise, For men improve with the years; And… Continue reading W.B. Yeats

Rate this:

Anthology · British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Compilation · Contemporary · Poetry

Hugo Williams

The evening advances, then withdraws again Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor. We are drifting, you and I, As far from another as the young heroes Of these two novels we have just laid down. For that is happiness: to wander alone Surrounded by the same moon, whose tides remind us… Continue reading Hugo Williams

Rate this:

British Culture · British Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Passage · Poetry

Charles Tomlinson

Days that haunt the poem’s single day are like the air revisiting this house of vocables that you and I designed: its windows watch an ocean and a sky to learn what portion of the other’s mind the jet-trails presage: letters are stones that fly to settle in a wall of which the line traces… Continue reading Charles Tomlinson

Rate this: