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, "A Christmas Carol" "Narrow Corner" :

I

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! a squeezing, grasping, wrenching, scraping, clutching covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty time was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days, and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

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External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"

But what did Scrooge care! It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts'" to Scrooge.

II

He was very easy to get on with. He was much liked. But he had no friends. He was an agreeable companion, but neither sought intimacy nor gave it. There was no one in the world to whom he was not at heart indifferent. He was self-sufficient. His happiness depended not on persons but on himself. He was selfish, but since he was at the same time shrewd and disinterested, few knew it and none was inconvenienced by it. Because he wanted nothing, he was never in anybody's way. Money meant little to him, and he never much minded whether patients paid him or not. They thought him philanthropic. Since time was as unimportant to him as cash, he was just as willing to doctor them as not. It amused him to see their ailments yield to treatment, and he continued to find entertainment in human nature. He confounded persons and patients. Each was like another page in an interminable book, and that there were so many repetitions oddly added to the interest. It was curious to see how all these people, white, yellow and brown, responded to the critical situations of humanity, but the sight neither touched his heart nor troubled his nerves. Death was, after all, the greatest event in every man's life, and he never ceased to find interest in the way he faced it. It was with a little thrill that he sought to pierce into a man's consciousness, looking through the eyes, frightened, defiant, sullen or resigned, into the soul confronted for the first time with the knowledge that its race was run, but the thrill was merely one of curiosity. His sensibility was unaffected. He felt neither sorrow nor pity. He only faintly wondered how it was that what was so important " to one could matter so little to another. And yet his manner was full of sympathy. He knew exactly what to say to alleviate the terror or pain of the moment, and he left no one but fortified, consoled and encouraged. It was a game that he played, and it gave him satisfaction to play it well. He had great natural kindliness, but it was a kindliness

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of instinct, which betokened no interest in the recipient; he would come to the rescue if you were in a fix, but if there was no getting you out of it would not bother about you further. He did not like to kill living things, and he would neither shoot nor fish. He went so far, for no reason other than that he felt that every creature had a right to life, that he preferred to brush away a mosquito or a fly than to shat it. Perhaps he was an intensely logical man. It could not be denied that he led a good life (if at least you did not confine goodness to conformity with your own sensual inclinations), for he was charitable and kindly, and he devoted his energies to the alleviation of pain, but if motive counts for righteousness, then he deserved no praise; for he was influenced in his actions neither by love, pity, nor charity.

, , , . : Oh! , , , . , , , secret, and self-contained and solitary as an oyster; : Oh! but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!; - . . :

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him.

No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less

open to entreaty.

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Music, when soft voices die,

Vibrates in the memory

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,

Love itself shall slumber on.

H. . , , , ; , , ; 1.

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1 . . . . . . . -., 1950, . 786.

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, -, . . "Major Barbara".

Barbara: Hullo, Bill! Back already!

Bill (nagging at her): Bin talkin ever sence, ave you?

Barbara: Pretty nearly. Well, has Todgei paid you out for poor Jenny's

jaw?

Bill: No he aint.

Barbara: I thought your jacket looked a bit snowy. Bill: So it is snowy. You want to know where the snow come from don't

you?

Barbara: Yes. Bill: Well, it come from off the ground in Parkiness Corner in Kennin-

tahn. It got rubbed off be my shoulders: see? Barbara: Pity you didnt rub some off with your knees, Bill! That

would have done you a lot of good. Bill (with sour mirthless humor): I was saving another man's knees at

the time. E was kneelin on my ed, so e was. Jenny: Who was kneeling on your head? Bill: Todger was. E was prayin for me: prayin comfortable with me

as a carpet. So was Mog. So was the ole bloomin meetin. Mog she

sez "O Lord break is stubborn spirit; but dont urt is dear eart."

That was wot she said. "Dont urt is dear eart!" An er bloke

thirteen stun four! kneelin wiv all is weight on me. Funny aint it? Jenny: Oh, no. We're so sorry, Mr. Walker. Barbara (enjoying it frankly) Nonsense! of course it's funny. Served

you right, Bill! You must have done something to him first.

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. . , , , , , . . . . , (, , .) , , , . , , , . . , ; , , . , . , . .1 , -

1 21, , , . . 305.

361


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. , , . , , , , :

THE LOVE SONG OF ALFRED PRUFROCK

by T. S. Eliot

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street Rubbing its back upon the window panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

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There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo,

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that

trail along the floor

And this, and so much more?

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

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... , , , , , , , , . , , .1

, , , , , ? , . , , . , , , .2

1 . . . . , . . . -, 1948, . III, . 803.

2 . . . , 1905, . 105 106.

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- . , ,

XVIII . ( ), , , . , do, .

. "The Ancient Mariner" , , , , . , ne not, eye . .

XVIII

XIX . , XV , XVI (, .) . , . , , . "Quarterly Review" .

364


( ) , . , (, ), , , , , , . , , , .

, , , , . , .1

, . , , .

, --

1 - . . . . I 1940, . I.

365


. , XVIII , , , .

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XI XII , . . , , , XIII , .

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XIV , , . , , . , , , , 1397 . , . . , , , .

, XV . . . , , , , , , , . , , .

:

Choose soil for the hop of the rotenest mould, Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should; Not far from the water, but not overflown, This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known. The sun in the south, or else southly and west, Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest: But wind in the north, or else northerly east, To the hop is as ill as a fay in the feast. Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told, Make there of account, as of jewel of gold;

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Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn, And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn.

XV , , . , , , XV . .1

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