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A review by moniwicz
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
4.0
I do not consider myself a stupid person, but Dickens (damn him) really did make me feel like I was in the majority of the reading of this book, in large part because his syntax was so obtuse that I had to read whole paragraphs quite a number of times to catch any meaning at all. Other (lazier) times I just admited defeat.
I have been assured that opaqueness (or at least opaqueness at this level) is not a usual Dickens quality
And forgive me for blubbering on this platform but; Sydney Carton (*cries inconsolably)
It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed to big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson’s that old clerks in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against the wall.
A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be a profound secret and mystery to every other;… that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!
He had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together—as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart.
Mr Lorry. Flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was before)
…and flinging her arms about her head like all the forty Furies at once
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven gone forever, twelve coming on to pass away.
« No, you wicked foreign woman; I am your match »
The figure of the sharp female called la Guillotine.
It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented head from turning grey, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which saved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts from which the Cross was denied
It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy puzzle for a young Devil, and was put together again where the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twenty1two friends of Hugh public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it had looped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God’s own Temple every day.
« If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage. »
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn fingers, and touched his lips.
‘Are you dying for him?’ she whispered.
‘And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.’
´oh you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?’
‘Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last
I have been assured that opaqueness (or at least opaqueness at this level) is not a usual Dickens quality
And forgive me for blubbering on this platform but; Sydney Carton (*cries inconsolably)
It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed to big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson’s that old clerks in distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against the wall.
A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be a profound secret and mystery to every other;… that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!
He had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together—as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart.
Mr Lorry. Flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was before)
…and flinging her arms about her head like all the forty Furies at once
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone forever, ten gone forever, eleven gone forever, twelve coming on to pass away.
« No, you wicked foreign woman; I am your match »
The figure of the sharp female called la Guillotine.
It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented head from turning grey, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which saved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts from which the Cross was denied
It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy puzzle for a young Devil, and was put together again where the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twenty1two friends of Hugh public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it had looped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief functionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God’s own Temple every day.
« If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage. »
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn fingers, and touched his lips.
‘Are you dying for him?’ she whispered.
‘And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.’
´oh you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?’
‘Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last