Fashion Sketches Quotes

We are, not metaphorically but in very truth, a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character. Here again we come up against what I have called the “intolerable compliment.” Over a sketch made idly to amuse a child, an artist may not take much trouble: he may be content to let it go even though it is not exactly as he meant it to be. But over the great picture of his life—the work which he loves, though in a different fashion, as intensely as a man loves a woman or a mother a child—he will take endless trouble—and would doubtless, thereby give endless trouble to the picture if it were sentient. One can imagine a sentient picture, after being rubbed and scraped and re-commenced for the tenth time, wishing that it were only a thumb-nail sketch whose making was over in a minute. In the same way, it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less.

The trouble with fashions is you want to fuck the women in their fashions but when the time comes they always take them off so they don't get wrinkled. Face it, the really great fucks in a man's life was when there was no time to take yr clothes off, you were too hot and she was too hot - none of yr Bohemian leisure, this was middleclass explosions against snowbanks, against walls of shithouses in attics, on sudden couches in the lobby - Talk about yr hot peace.

What is a hobby anyway? Where is the line of demarcation between hobbies and ordinary normal pursuits? I have been unable to answer this question to my own satisfaction. At first blush I am tempted to conclude that a satisfactory hobby must be in large degree useless, inefficient, laborious, or irrelevant. Certainly many of our most satisfying avocations today consist of making something by hand which machines can usually make more quickly and cheaply, and sometimes better. Nevertheless I must in fairness admit that in a different age the mere fashioning of a machine might have been an excellent hobby... Today the invention of a new machine, however noteworthy to industry, would, as a hobby, be trite stuff. Perhaps we have here the real inwardness of our own question: A hobby is a defiance of the contemporary. It is an assertion of those permanent values which the momentary eddies of social evolution have contravened or overlooked. If this is true, then we may also say that every hobbyist is inherently a radical, and that his tribe is inherently a minority. This, however, is serious: Becoming serious is a grievous fault in hobbyists. It is an axiom that no hobby should either seek or need rational justification. To wish to do it is reason enough. To find reasons why it is useful or beneficial converts it at once from an avocation into an industry–lowers it at once to the ignominious category of an 'exercise' undertaken for health, power, or profit. Lifting dumbbells is not a hobby. It is a confession of subservience, not an assertion of liberty.

In the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity! Imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy. In fancy, the voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.' Her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly. "In such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into the Elysian world, of which she has had such bright dreams. How fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted vision! Each new scene is more charming than the last. But after a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the ball-room has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!

Not thou alone, but all humanity doth in its progress fable emulate. Whence came thy rocket-ships and submarine if not from Nautilus, from Cavorite? Your trustiest companions since the cave, we apparitions guided mankind's tread, our planet, unseen counterpart to thine, as permanent, as ven'rable, as true. On dream's foundation matter's mudyards rest. Two sketching hands, each one the other draws: the fantasies thou've fashioned fashion thee.

I could wish to spy the nakedness of their hearts, and through the different disguises of customs, climates, and religion, find out what is good in them, to fashion my own by. It is for this reason that I have not seen the Palais Royal - nor the facade of the Louvre - nor have attempted to swell the catalogues we have of pictures, statues, and churches - I conceive every fair being as a temple, and would rather enter in, and see the original drawings and loose sketches hung up in it, than the Transfiguration of Raphael itself.

Designed by Mia Mia is always sketching! She has dreams of being a world-famous fashion designer someday. In this story, she sketches a sleek winter coat, a birthday party dress for her friend Ava, and a Valentine’s Day outfit.

He took a ragged breath. “You should know that I’ve always wanted you, Cat. I’ve had fantasies so wicked, it would send us both straight to hell if I told them to you. And the way I want you has nothing to do with the color of your hair, or the appalling fashions you wear.” His hand passed gently over her head. “Catherine Marks, or whoever you are … I have the most profane desire to be in bed with you for … oh, weeks, at least … committing every mortal sin known to man. I’d like to do more than sketch you naked. I want to draw directly on you with feather and ink … flowers around your breasts, trails of stars down your thighs.” He let his warm lips brush the edge of her ear. “I want to map your body, chart the north, south, east, and west of you. I would—” “Don’t,” she said, scarcely able to breathe. A rueful laugh escaped him. “I told you. Straight to hell.

Save for the accident of her low birth, Peg might have been a person of fashion; a vibrant beauty, painted by an academician in oils. Intending to make a quick end to it, I started mixing the lily green I had made especially from crushed flowers, hoping exactly to tint her eyes, rattling my tiny brush in the jar. Then I subjected her to my closest gaze. "Your eyes," I said, musingly. "They are a very unusual green; in different lights they reflect brown and blue. Do they perhaps reflect whatever light falls on them?" Peg replied that she couldn't say. "Do, please, sit very still." I looked very hard, then used my green with a wash of yellow ochre to tint the iris, and a ring of burnt umber. A pinprick of white titanium gave them startling life. I was happy with them; surely even Peg would admire her lively cat-like eyes.

In these cases, when it is an unkept appointment, a letter of refusal, that dictates one’s choice, one’s imagination, goaded by suffering, sets about its work so swiftly, fashions with so frenzied a rapidity a love that had scarcely begun and remained inchoate, destined, for months past, to remain a rough sketch, that there are times when one’s intelligence, which has been unable to keep pace with one’s heart, cries out in astonishment: “But you must be mad.

The little stone Saint and the Goblin got on very well together, though they looked at most things from different points of view. The Saint was a philanthropist in an old fashioned way; he thought the world, as he saw it, was good, but might be improved. In particular he pitied the church mice, who were miserably poor. The Goblin, on the other hand, was of opinion that the world, as he knew it, was bad, but had better be let alone. It was the function of the church mice to be poor.

While he sketched it the Story Girl and I sat on the banks of the brook and she told me the story of the Sighing Reed. It was a very simple little story, that of the slender brown reed which grew by the forest pool and always was sad and sighing because it could not utter music like the brook and the birds and the winds. All the bright, beautiful things around it mocked it and laughed at it for its folly. Who would ever look for music in it, a plain, brown, unbeautiful thing? But one day a youth came through the wood; he was as beautiful as the spring; he cut the brown reed and fashioned it according to his liking; and then he put it to his lips and breathed on it; and, oh, the music that floated through the forest! It was so entrancing that everything—brooks and birds and winds—grew silent to listen to it. Never had anything so lovely been heard; it was the music that had for so long been shut up in the soul of the sighing reed and was set free at last through its pain and suffering.

The juxtapositions can seem haphazard, and to some extent they are; we watch his mind and pen leap from an insight about mechanics, to a doodle of hair curls and water eddies, to a drawing of a face, to an ingenious contraption, to an anatomical sketch, all accompanied by mirror-script notes and musings. But the joy of these juxtapositions is that they allow us to marvel at the beauty of a universal mind as it wanders exuberantly in free-range fashion over the arts and sciences and, by doing so, senses the connections in our cosmos. We can extract from his pages, as he did from nature’s, the patterns that underlie things that at first appear disconnected.

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

A silver hairbrush, old and surely precious, with a little leopard's head for London stamped near the bristles. A white dress, small and pretty, the sort of old-fashioned dress Cassandra had never seen, let alone owned- the girls at school would laugh if she wore such a thing. A bundle of papers tied together with a pale blue ribbon. Cassandra let the bow slip loose between her fingertips and brushed the ends aside to see what lay beneath. A picture, a black-and-white sketch. The most beautiful woman Cassandra had ever seen, standing beneath a garden arch. No, not an arch, a leafy doorway, the entrance to a tunnel of trees. A maze, she thought suddenly. The strange word came into her mind fully formed. Scores of little black lines combined like magic to form the picture, and Cassandra wondered what it would feel like to create such a thing. The image was oddly familiar and at first she couldn't think how that could be. Then she realized- the woman looked like someone from a children's book. Like an illustration from an olden-days fairy tale, the maiden who turns into a princess when the handsome prince sees beyond her ratty clothing.

Nietzsche's case is an especially interesting one for whoever wishes to undertake a critical examination of the “neotraditionalist” path. Two main reasons justify this evaluation: ― Nietzsche's work, on the one hand, explicitly and in an exemplary manner articulates the critique of democratic modernity and the denunciation of the argumentative foundation of norms: in this way it permits us ―better than does the work of other philosophers― to grasp all that is involved, within the choice between tradition and argumentation, in the rejection of the latter. ― On the other and perhaps more important hand, the way Nietzsche went about this rejection illustrates in a particularly significant fashion one of the main difficulties this type of philosophical projects comes up against: the neotraditionalist avoidance of democratic modernity makes it necessary to look for and ―we insist on this― whatever could be today's analogue of a traditional universe: the analogue, for (as Nietzsche knew better than anyone) it is out of question that in a time when “God is dead”, tradition should function as it does in theological cultures, in which whatever renders the value of tradition “sacred” and gives it its power is never unrelated to its rootedness in the divine will or in the world order supposed to express this will. Situating as he does his reflections at the same time after the “death of God” and after the (inseparably associated) discovery that the world once “dedivinized”, appears to be devoid of any order and must be thought of as “chaos”, Nietzsche take into account the end of cosmological and theological universe, an end that in general defines the intellectual and cultural location of the Moderns: we are thus dealing here, by definition and, we could say, at the stage of working sketch (since Nietzsche is, in philosophy, the very man who declared the foundations of the traditional universe to be antiquated), with a very peculiar mixture of antimodernism and modernity, of tradition and novelty ―which is why the expression “neotraditionalism” seems perfectly appropriate here, right down to the tension expressed within it. The question is of course one of knowing what such a “mixture” could consists of, both in its content and in its effects. Since, more than most of the representative of ordinary conservatism, Nietzsche cannot contemplate a naïve resumption of tradition, his “neo-conservative” approach permits us to submit the traditionalist option to an interrogation that can best examine its limitations and unintended consequences ―namely: what would a modern analogue of tradition consist of?

And what is the popular color for gowns this Season?” he asked with a smile when it became necessary to announce himself. She gave a little start, and when she raised her face to look up at him, her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide. She looked, for lack of a better comparison, like a child caught doing something she oughtn’t. “Oh! Hello, Grey.” She glanced away. “Um, blue seems to be very favorable this year.” Arching a brow, he nodded at the periodical in her hand. “Beg pardon. I thought you were reading a ladies’ magazine.” “I am,” she replied with a coy smile. “But fashion is not one of its main areas of interest.” With an expression like hers-very much like the Cheshire cat in that book by Lewis Carroll-he doubted it was an article on housekeeping that put such becoming color in her cheeks. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand. Her grip on the magazine tightened, reluctant to give it up. “Only if you promise not to tell Mama you saw me reading it.” Oh, this was trouble. Still, it was none of his business what a grown woman of three and twenty read. He was curious, that was all. “I promise.” She hesitated, then put the pages into his hand. Placing his fingers between the thin sheaves to mark her spot, Grey flipped to the cover. Christ on a pony! The magazine looked fairly harmless-the sketch on the front showed a demure young lady in a stylish gown and hat, sitting on a park bench. Only upon closer inspection could one notice that the object of her attention-and rapturous smile-was the young man bathing in the lake just on the edge of the page. He was bare-chested-quite possibly bare everywhere, but that key part of anatomy was carefully hidden with a line of text that read, “Ten ways to keep a gentleman at home-and in bed.” He didn’t want to see what she was reading. He had heard of this magazine before. Voluptuous was a racy publication for women, filled with erotic stories, advice, and articles about sexual relationships, how to conduct oneself to avoid scandal, etc. He could take her to task for reading it, but what would be the point? No doubt the information in it would serve her wisely someday. He gave the magazine back to her. “I have to confess, I’m a little surprised to find you reading such…material.” She shrugged. “I was curious. My parents were so happy in their marriage, so very much the opposite of most of what I’ve heard. If I’m to make a match as good as theirs, I need to know as much as I can about how to have a satisfying marriage.” Grey almost groaned. The image of Rose “satisfying” herself filled his mind with such clarity it was difficult to remember he’d never actually seen such a delightful sight. His body stiffened at the delectable images his mind conjured, and he had to fold his hands in front of him to hide his growing arousal.

You should know that I've always wanted you, Cat. I've had fantasies so wicked, it would send us both straight to hell if I told them to you. And the way I want you has nothing to do with the color of your hair, or the appalling fashions you wear." His hand passed gently over her head. "Catherine Marks, or whoever you are... I have the most profane desire to be in bed with you for... oh, weeks, at least... committing every mortal sin known to man. I'd like to do more than sketch you naked. I want to draw directly on you with feather and ink... flowers around your breasts, trails of stars down your thighs." He let his warm lips brush the edge of her ear. "I want to map your body, chart the north, south, east, and west of you. I would-" "Don't," she said, scarcely able to breathe. A rueful laugh escaped him. "I told you. Straight to hell." "This is my fault." She pressed her hot face against his shoulder. "I shouldn't have gone to you last night. I don't know why I did it." "I think you do." His mouth grazed the top of her head. "Don't come back to my room at night, Marks. Because if it happens agin, I won't be able to stop.

You should know that I’ve always wanted you, Cat. I’ve had fantasies so wicked, it would send us both straight to hell if I told them to you. And the way I want you has nothing to do with the color of your hair, or the appalling fashions you wear.” His hand passed gently over her head. “Catherine Marks, or whoever you are … I have the most profane desire to be in bed with you for … oh, weeks, at least … committing every mortal sin known to man. I’d like to do more than sketch you naked. I want to draw directly on you with feather and ink … flowers around your breasts, trails of stars down your thighs.” He let his warm lips brush the edge of her ear. “I want to map your body, chart the north, south, east, and west of you. I would—” “Don’t,” she said, scarcely able to breathe. A rueful laugh escaped him. “I told you. Straight to hell.” “This is my fault.” She pressed her hot face against his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have gone to you last night. I don’t know why I did it.” “I think you do.” His mouth grazed the top of her head. “Don’t come back to my room at night, Marks. Because if it happens again, I won’t be able to stop.

Finn looked up at Megan and suddenly she felt totally self-conscious. But she meant everything she had said. She knew she was right. But something about the way he was looking at her was making her feel like he could see under her skin. “Can I paint you?” Finn asked. Megan blinked. “Okay, that’s basically the last thing I ever thought you were gonna say.” Finn was on his feet and removing Kayla’s painting from the easel before the rush of heat had eased from Megan’s face. Suddenly he was a flurry of motion, cleaning brushes, squirting paint onto his palette, crumpling paper towels and launching them toward an overflowing trash can in the corner. “So, can I?” he asked. “Uh…I guess,” Megan said, already feeling awkward. If there was one thing Megan wasn’t, it was a model. She had never seen a freckle-faced, broad-shouldered, thick-calved girl in the pages of Tracy’s fashion mags. Not once. Finn was busily arranging his easel, which faced the back wall. Megan started to push herself off her stool. “Should I--?” “No! No. Stay right there,” Finn said. He picked up his easel and turned it so that the back of the contraption was facing her and her stool. “That’s good. I like the light right there.” Megan glanced up at the skylight and the blue sky beyond. “Am I gonna have to sit still for this?” she asked. “’Cuz I’m not very good at that.” Finn grinned and peeked at her over the top of his clean canvas. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out.” Megan sat and watched Finn as he worked, sketching her outline, the pencil scraping lightly against the cloth. He was riveted, concentrating, but his arms and hands seemed to move of their own volition. Watching him was mesmerizing. Even when he looked up at her, she found that she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She kept catching his glance, looking directly into his eyes. Megan’s skin grew warm under his intense scrutiny. She lifted her ponytail off the back of her neck to get some air and the ends of her hair tickled her skin. Her breath came quick and shallow. “You okay?” he asked. Megan instantly blushed and averted her gaze. “Yeah, fine.” “’Cuz we can stop if you don’t want to do this,” Finn replied. “No, I’m…I’m okay,” Megan said. Truth be told, everything inside her and around her felt charged. She could have sat there all day. “Good,” Finn said. Megan’s whole body felt a pleasant, tingling warmth. For a split second, neither of them moved.

As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends.

Do you ever regret the choices you made?” He asked because a man could love his wife and still be honest. Flint’s answer was to leaf through the sketches and pull out one of a young couple from a bygone era, his evening attire nearly as resplendent as her ball gown—for all the image was in black and white. “The fashion at one point was to have mirrors in ballrooms, the better to serve both light and vanity. At our betrothal ball, I caught a particular glimpse of your mother’s face as we danced, and it has been all the answer any husband should ever need.” The young marchioness gazed at her husband much as the queen had gazed at her king—with love and admiration, but without the worry. Clearly she had found her way into the arms of the one man in all the world who was right for her. Flint picked up the sketch. “I would give up the ability to see any color, the ability to sketch, and several appendages as well to spend my life with your mother.

The sultan appeared to enter into his guest's character at once, and neither overloaded him with attentions, nor failed to treat him as a person to whom much respect was due. I heard Sir Samuel say afterwards, that he was particularly struck with the sultan's good breeding, in not offering to assist him in cutting his meat. The sultan merely remarked that few people were so expert as his guest even with both hands; adding, neatly enough, that on this account the distinction which his wound had gained for him was more cheaply purchased than people supposed. While the Admiral was hunting for some reply to this novel compliment, his host remarked, that in Borneo it was considered fashionable to eat with the left hand. The

Class, take 15 seconds to think of your answers. I will go around the room starting at Lindsay and everyone will have a chance to respond. When it is your time to answer, if you want to, you can say, "Pass." If you do so, that's OK. I will come back to you, and you can either give an idea you thought of or say an idea you heard from someone else that you agree with. Or a part of an idea you agree with. So in this way we will hear from everyone. Class, take 2 minutes to develop an answer to this question. You may write down some ideas in a list, in sentences, in images. I want you to go beyond the first ideas in your head. I will then call on you, one at a time. Class, this is a great question for everyone to consider. I think you need about 37 seconds on this one. I will tell you when that time is up, and then you should share your answer with the person sitting next to you. Then I am going to go around the room—this time, let's start with Andrew and go counterclockwise—and you have to tell us what your partner gave for an answer. So listen carefully. Class, here's the deal with answering this question. Everyone will have 20 seconds to consider. Then I am going to ask Eric and Liz their ideas. Then I will ask Jess and Matt to say if they agree or disagree with Eric and Liz. Then I will ask Jenny and Max to add any ideas or reactions. We will regularly do this: one group gives a first response, one group says if they agree, and the third group adds comments. Class, I am not asking you "Why did the Industrial Revolution begin?" but instead, "What are some of the reasons it began?" You can write a list or sentences. I will start this time with Danielle and have her say one reason. I'll write it on the board. Then Casey will give one reason. Then Eric. And we'll go around the room, collecting ideas, until we run out of them. That way, no one person gives all the answers for the group—everyone contributes. When we collect all the ideas, then I am going to have you work on your own to organize them into …. Class, JP just gave an answer to the question I asked before I could give you all time to think, so now I want you to consider his answer for 10 seconds. Then thumbs up if you agree with JP, thumbs down if you disagree, and thumbs sideways if you are not sure. Oh no, class, it happened again—this time Jeffrey answered the question before I gave you all time to think. So, it's "Fist to Five" time. Hold up a fist if you disagree, five fingers if you completely agree, and one to four fingers depending how much you agree. Let's see what we all really think, after 10 seconds. Class, this is a time I want to let the conversation flow more quickly than usual. There is only one thing you have to do before you give your ideas—you have to summarize as best you can what the person who spoke before you said. That way we know we are listening. Class, I have a question to ask that you will need a bunch of time to think about and organize your answers, and then we'll share them in some fashion. I put together this graphic organizer, which might help you get all the parts of the answer organized. You don't have to use it. You can sketch an answer, or write a list, or sentences. I am not playing "Guess what the teacher is thinking" here. The only right answer is what you are thinking, if it is organized enough for the rest of us to understand. Here goes….

world of fashion had called to me like a siren song in the dark. I finished my first sketch and moved on to the second. A tiny seed of pride sprouted with each sketch I completed. To others, they were just drawings, but to me, they were proof of perseverance after years of holding myself back. Sometimes, victory was as simple as finishing.

If now -- and this is my idea -- there were, instead of military conscription, a conscription of the whole youthful population to form for a certain number of years a part of the army enlisted against Nature, the injustice would tend to be evened out, and numerous other goods to the commonwealth would remain blind as the luxurious classes now are blind, to man's relations to the globe he lives on, and to the permanently sour and hard foundations of his higher life. To coal and iron mines, to freight trains, to fishing fleets in December, to dishwashing, clotheswashing, and windowwashing, to road-building and tunnel-making, to foundries and stoke-holes, and to the frames of skyscrapers, would our gilded youths be drafted off, according to their choice, to get the childishness knocked out of them, and to come back into society with healthier sympathies and soberer ideas. They would have paid their blood-tax, done their own part in the immemorial human warfare against nature; they would tread the earth more proudly, the women would value them more highly, they would be better fathers and teachers of the following generation. Such a conscription, with the state of public opinion that would have required it, and the many moral fruits it would bear, would preserve in the midst of a pacific civilization the manly virtues which the military party is so afraid of seeing disappear in peace. We should get toughness without callousness, authority with as little criminal cruelty as possible, and painful work done cheerily because the duty is temporary, and threatens not, as now, to degrade the whole remainder of one's life. I spoke of the "moral equivalent" of war. So far, war has been the only force that can discipline a whole community, and until and equivalent discipline is organized, I believe that war must have its way. But I have no serious doubt that the ordinary prides and shames of social man, once developed to a certain intensity, are capable of organizing such a moral equivalent as I have sketched, or some other just as effective for preserving manliness of type. It is but a question of time, of skilful propogandism, and of opinion-making men seizing historic opportunities. The martial type of character can be bred without war. Strenuous honor and disinterestedness abound everywhere. Priests and medical men are in a fashion educated to it, and we should all feel some degree if its imperative if we were conscious of our work as an obligatory service to the state. We should be owned, as soldiers are by the army, and our pride would rise accordingly. We could be poor, then, without humiliation, as army officers now are. The only thing needed henceforward is to inflame the civic temper as part history has inflamed the military temper.

No, sir, it was reserved for the present day to bring forth a fry of young critic imps, the mingled spawn of arrogance and envy hatched by mischief, who were to entail disgrace for ever on the word reviewer, by making it synonymous with libeller and assassin.... You may proceed in your career… grin over the collection of hopes destroyed, of fortunes injured, of feelings outraged, of intellects deranged, of hearts broken by your merry malice, or your venomous corruption; enjoy the feast infernal!

She knew that, in her family, Lydia was always the first to gallop off to do something, and rarely, if ever, did any of her sisters run along with her. Even Kitty would follow in a more ladylike fashion. It was just how Lydia was. Exuberance poured from her in streams or, more precisely, like loud, babbling brooks that hopped here and there.

Even Mr. Masrani’s announcement of his plans to open a park had been shrouded in mystery. The man had a flair for drama. It started when packages containing amber-handled archaeological tools—the kind that paleontologists use to dig up bones—began arriving. At first, it was journalists, social media influencers, actors, pop stars, the leading professors and minds of the world. Then, as the buzz began to start, the tools began arriving at random people’s doorsteps across the world. Everyone starting talking about it because it was so weird—and the selection of people who got the tools was so broad and varied. The tools came with no note, just a simple card that had the profile of a T. rex skeleton stamped upon it. Two more packages arrived for the lucky recipients over the next few weeks. It became this status thing to post about them. Everyone was trying to trace the company that sent them, but no one could figure it out. The second package contained a compass; carved on the back was that same T. rex stamp. When the third and final package arrived, it caused a sensation. Each person’s box had three clues—a jagged tooth, a curled piece of parchment with the sketch of a gate in spidery ink, and an old-fashioned-looking key, one clearly not made to unlock anything. The speculation this caused throughout the world was unparalleled. What did these objects mean? Did they relate to each other? Was this just some elaborate prank? The first person to discover how to activate the boxes was a farmer’s son in Bolivia. After he disassembled the wooden box the trinkets were sent in, he noticed a strange indentation in the top of the lid and placed his key inside. Once he posted his discovery on YouTube, people across the globe were inserting their key in the notch, activating a hidden hologram chip embedded in the key’s handle. This beamed a message. Two silver words. One date. They’re coming. May 30, 2005 By the time Mr. Masrani held his press conference the next day, the entire world was buzzing about the possibility of a new park and a chance to get close to the dinosaurs. Both of the islands had been restricted for so long, it was the only thing anyone could talk about. It’s one of those things you compare notes on with other people: Where were you when Masrani announced Jurassic World?

I wish that, the way secret manuscripts ought to, the thing arrived on our laps bound in Moroccan leather, dusty and smelling of Muscilin and old fly-tying capes. That it was penned in permanent ink, calligraphied almost, in a neat and precise hand, filled with hand-drawn maps dotted with X spots and question marks, and with watercolour sketches instead of snapshots. Alas, no, it came in a much more contemporary and prosaic fashion, by email and as a spreadsheet file. Nevertheless, it had Gazza and me drooling with anticipation, because what it contained was priceless, so never mind the banal form and packaging.