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Everything looms pleasant through the softening haze of time. Even the sadness that is past seems sweet. Options
Daemon
Posted: Saturday, May 26, 2018 12:00:00 AM
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Everything looms pleasant through the softening haze of time. Even the sadness that is past seems sweet.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)
Bully_rus
Posted: Saturday, May 26, 2018 1:55:33 AM
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Location: Minsk, Minskaya Voblasts', Belarus
Yeah. Everything blooms in the past perfect tense – or almost everything...
KSPavan
Posted: Saturday, May 26, 2018 4:11:11 AM

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Quotation of the Day

Everything looms pleasant through the softening haze of time. Even the sadness that is past seems sweet.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)
monamagda
Posted: Saturday, May 26, 2018 10:01:15 AM

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Location: Bogotá, Bogota D.C., Colombia

Context from: THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW.

ON MEMORY.

"I remember, I remember,
In the days of chill November,
How the blackbird on the--"


I forget the rest. It is the beginning of the first piece of poetry I
ever learned; for

"Hey, diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,"


I take no note of, it being of a frivolous character and lacking in the
qualities of true poetry. I collected fourpence by the recital of "I
remember, I remember." I knew it was fourpence, because they told me
that if I kept it until I got twopence more I should have sixpence,
which argument, albeit undeniable, moved me not, and the money was
squandered, to the best of my recollection, on the very next morning,
although upon what memory is a blank.

That is just the way with Memory; nothing that she brings to us is
complete. She is a willful child; all her toys are broken. I remember
tumbling into a huge dust-hole when a very small boy, but I have not the
faintest recollection of ever getting out again; and if memory were all
we had to trust to, I should be compelled to believe I was there still.

At another time--some years later--I was assisting at an exceedingly
interesting love scene; but the only thing about it I can call to mind
distinctly is that at the most critical moment somebody suddenly opened
the door and said, "Emily, you're wanted," in a sepulchral tone that
gave one the idea the police had come for her. All the tender words
she said to me and all the beautiful things I said to her are utterly
forgotten.

Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind: a
shattered column here, where a massive portal stood; the broken shaft
of a window to mark my lady's bower; and a moldering heap of blackened
stones where the glowing flames once leaped, and over all the tinted
lichen and the ivy clinging green.

For everything looms pleasant through the softening haze of time. Even
the sadness that is past seems sweet.
Our boyish days look very merry to
us now, all nutting, hoop, and gingerbread. The snubbings and toothaches
and the Latin verbs are all forgotten--the Latin verbs especially. And
we fancy we were very happy when we were hobbledehoys and loved; and we
wish that we could love again. We never think of the heartaches, or the
sleepless nights, or the hot dryness of our throats, when she said she
could never be anything to us but a sister--as if any man wanted more
sisters!

Yes, it is the brightness, not the darkness, that we see when we look
back. The sunshine casts no shadows on the past. The road that we have
traversed stretches very fair behind us. We see not the sharp stones. We
dwell but on the roses by the wayside, and the strong briers that stung
us are, to our distant eyes, but gentle tendrils waving in the wind. God
be thanked that it is so--that the ever-lengthening chain of memory has
only pleasant links, and that the bitterness and sorrow of to-day are
smiled at on the morrow.

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/849/849.txt


Nelson Cerqueira
Posted: Saturday, May 26, 2018 11:05:19 AM

Rank: Newbie

Joined: 12/24/2017
Posts: 39
Neurons: 43,752
Location: Salvador, Tocantins, Brazil
Time is time is time, paraphrasing Gertrud Stein.
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