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Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind. Options
Daemon
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 12:00:00 AM
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Joined: 3/7/2009
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Location: Inside Farlex computers
Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)
mirilli
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 5:01:30 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 9/28/2013
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Location: Gubbio, Umbria, Italy
Daemon wrote:
Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)


Distressing! Eh?
KSPavan
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 6:34:33 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 1/28/2015
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Location: Kolkata, Bengal, India
Quotation of the Day

Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)
pedro
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 7:05:51 AM

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Joined: 5/21/2009
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Then don't look back.

All good ideas arrive by chance- Max Ernst
Bully_rus
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 10:50:43 AM
Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 3/26/2013
Posts: 2,457
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Location: Minsk, Minskaya Voblasts', Belarus
Daemon wrote:
Life altogether is but a crumbling ruin when we turn to look behind.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927)


Yeah. Castles in the sky vs crumbling ruins... Did they somehow link between themselves?
FROSTY X RIME
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 10:52:58 AM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 10/20/2015
Posts: 999
Neurons: 10,869
pedro wrote:
Then don't look back.



Applause Applause Applause

What should be shall be-The fellowship of the ring-
monamagda
Posted: Friday, June 8, 2018 12:48:25 PM

Rank: Advanced Member

Joined: 2/4/2014
Posts: 6,366
Neurons: 4,241,094
Location: Bogotá, Bogota D.C., Colombia
Context from: Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow

14. 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!

Read more: http://www.literaturepage.com/read/idlethoughts-103.html

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