The best writing this week comes, yet again, from Charles Dickens.
He is a master, pure and simple. From great character names to the most vivid descriptions and heartbreaking plot, he is one to envy.
Here is a great passage I came across this week while reading Hard Times
She gave him an affectionate good-night, and went out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown could be seen, making the distance lurid. She stood there, looking steadfastly towards them, and listening to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, as glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It seemed as if, first in her own fire within the house, and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover what kind of woof Old Time, that greatest and longest-established Spinner of all, would weave from the threads he had already spun into a woman. But his factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his Hands are mutes.
On Books and Writing 
“…and his Hands are mutes.”
Yikes! That last line adds an appropriate dark flourish to a foreboding picture, doesn’t it?
Did I make the 500th comment? Where’s my beer? ;)
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You shall have your beer upon the time we meet. We shall talk of books and writing and haikus and old Tolkien until the sun comes up again.
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Ha! Excellent. I bid you a good night, sir.
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