poetic.
He followed her out of the room, his back obscuring her departure for those who watched.
Their steps, if not their voices, were mingling through the empty streets of the dead town. Iron lace hung from dark pubs, and the heavy smell from spilled beer. Dreams broke from windows. And cats lifted the lid off all politeness. […]
“Anyway,” said Amy Fibbens, “We have had a talk. About a lot of things.”
It was quite right. They had talked about almost everything, because words occasionally will rise to the occasion and disgorge whole worlds. Just as the darkness will disgorge a white face under a dusty tree. [...]
Patrick White, The Tree of Man
Their steps, if not their voices, were mingling through the empty streets of the dead town. Iron lace hung from dark pubs, and the heavy smell from spilled beer. Dreams broke from windows. And cats lifted the lid off all politeness. […]
“Anyway,” said Amy Fibbens, “We have had a talk. About a lot of things.”
It was quite right. They had talked about almost everything, because words occasionally will rise to the occasion and disgorge whole worlds. Just as the darkness will disgorge a white face under a dusty tree. [...]
Patrick White, The Tree of Man
thisandthat - 29. Mar, 12:56
