Centennial Hauntings: Pope, Byron and Eliot in the Year 88C. C. Barfoot, Theo d'. Haen |
Contents
| 1 | |
| 13 | |
| 65 | |
J P Vander Motten | 87 |
J J Peereboom | 97 |
Felicity Rosslyn | 111 |
Kristiaan Versluys | 125 |
Wim Tigges | 141 |
Peter J De Voogd | 193 |
Cornelis W Schoneveld | 215 |
Theo Dhaen | 233 |
Eliots Spooks | 253 |
Dominic BakerSmith | 271 |
August J | 303 |
T H B M Harmsen | 323 |
Pieter Smoor | 341 |
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Centennial Hauntings: Pope, Byron and Eliot in the Year 88 C. C. Barfoot,Theo d'. Haen Limited preview - 1990 |
Common terms and phrases
Agamemnon al-Sayyab Alexander Pope Amsterdam Arab Bacon Baghdad Beets Belinda Bilderdijk Binfield Byron Canto Caryll Catholic century Childe Harold Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Chiswick classical conceit contemporary context Corr couplet critical cultural Dancastle Dante Dante's death Diwan Don Juan Dunciad Dutch edition emotions England English poetry epic Epistle Essay experience F.H. Bradley F.R. Leavis fact father feeling ghost haar Hammersmith haunted Horace Hulme Hulme's human humour idea ideal imagery Jaykūr John Caryll language Leiden Lennep letter lines literary literature living Lock London Lord Mandeville metaphor Metaphysical mijn mind moral murder nature Nightingales original painting passage perhaps poem poet poet's poetic political Pope's quoted Rape reality references religious rhyme Romantic Romanticism rura paterna satire Sayyab seems sense soul speak stanza style Sweeney T.E. Hulme T.S. Eliot things tion tradition translation verse voice Waste Land Willem Bilderdijk words writing zich zijn
Popular passages
Page 149 - A heav'nly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride.
Page 272 - Words move, music moves Only in time; but that which is only living Can only die. Words, after speech, reach Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern, Can words or music reach The stillness, as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Page 69 - When the proud steed shall know why man restrains His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains; When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod, Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god: Then shall man's pride and dulness comprehend His actions', passions', being's use and end; Why doing, sufFring, check'd, impell'd; and why This hour a slave, the next a deity.
Page 111 - Anson's tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme, A more enduring date. But misery still delights to trace Its 'semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allay'd, No- light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd each alone : But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
Page 260 - The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an "objective correlative"; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that -particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.
Page 76 - We only furnish what he cannot use, Or wed to what he must divorce, a muse: Full in the midst of Euclid dip at once, And petrify a genius to a dunce: Or set on metaphysic ground to prance, Show all his paces, not a step advance.
Page 3 - Yes, I am proud ; I must be proud, to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me : Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.
Page 162 - Between two worlds life hovers like a star Twixt night and morn upon the horizon's verge. How little do we know that which we are ! How less what we may be! The eternal surge Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar Our bubbles. As the old burst, new emerge, Lashed from the foam of ages; while the graves Of empires heave but like some passing waves.
Page 109 - But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Page 174 - Then farewell, Horace — whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine : it is a curse To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, To comprehend, but never love thy verse...