Capitolo 87
in him I don't know that yet that of the sweetness among the delirious aspirations
with which distracts us. You cannot know, with his/her scurvy instincts
dragging down his to the hearth-level of house and child, the material
the gracelessness of his/her husband, equally incapable to strike a
Anglo-Saxon, or an attitude of mediaeval; and with his/her lined up blood the text,
does healthy incapable to understand in his/her expression that the divine pain
what you/he/she can distinguish alone the man of the culture from to the agenda
English or the anthropoid monkeys. You will never know what waves
so harshly on us--the lack to feel for colour in which is exposed
the tone common of his/her chestnut hair. Then in respect to his/her children, the
mind of Mrs. Smith it is rather deprived of critical sense. You look at that child as a
thousand other children that you see every day. It doesn't have an individual
idiosyncrasy on that whoever above of the intellectual level of a
_cretin_ could hang an affection. His porky it looks tipsy weakly
through rolls of fat; it chews and it puffs, and its habits are
simply abominable. Thing a gross house for the star of that life that the hath
had far elsewhere his/her setting and cometh from! The star is extinct
in fat; you/he/she has exchanged the music of the spheres for a horrendous
meowing! Still Mrs. loves of Smith that his/her child, and it swallows him on,
coming down to his/her abysses of the coarseness.
Its house is one of many in a road of long unlovely; you/he/she is furnished
according to the most corrupt laws of bestial Philistinism--that
it is, with a sight to comfort. There are no thin harmonies in the
papers and chintz; there am not any unknown suggestions of form and tone
in the frames and handles of bell; all are sterile of proportion,
harmony, and wanting to say. Anchor, this poor woman, with his/her eye of inartistic
and foolish heart, loves this unfortunate refuge, and it would pour out her
idiotic torn wounds if her same leaving him/it for Heaven.