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Living Free: The High Philosophy

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Kio Briggs

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“A sensible person does not read a novel as a task. He reads it as a diversion. He is prepared to interest himself in the characters and is concerned to see how they act in given circumstances, and what happens to them; he sympathizes with their troubles and is gladdened by their joys; he puts himself in their place and, to an extent, lives their lives. Their view of life, their attitude to the great subjects of human speculation, whether stated in words or shown in action, call forth in him a reaction of surprise, of pleasure or of indignation. But he knows instinctively where his interest lies and he follows it as surely as a hound follows the scent of a fox. Sometimes, through the author's failure, he loses the scent. Then he flounders about till he finds it again. He skips.”

ReadingEntertainmentDiversionSkipping
Book:Great novelists and their novels: Essays on the ten greatest novels of the world, and the men and women who wrote them
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“Myself I love a thunderstorm better than anything. Sometimes I will run to the top of the hill to whirl around and around on my Indian Rock in the wind, it is like a dance I can not stop. The smell of the lightning goes into your nose and down your whole body. Old Bess says if you get hit by lightning yet live you will have special powers, well I could use some of those. So I don't care if I get hit or not.”

LightningThunderstorms
Book:On Agate Hill
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“The Taranis Cèilidh by Stewart Stafford Lightning's jagged spear, Burning the horizon bright, Silhouetting empty tables, No picnics by the waterside. Waves sloshed against jetties, A displaced bath on all sides, Flailing tree chorus genuflected, To the foaming vat beside them. The roar of the gale rose and fell, Tempest's tongue agitated potently, Leaves surrendered in droves to it, Sleep deepened in the storm's fury. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

WindStormWeatherLightningStormsGaleThunderstormLakeThunderstormsLightning Bolt
Author:Stewart Stafford
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“The sky belched. The thunder of one more belch cracked the dark morning and the air became clogged with the twisting speed of the rain that beat the streets in a unified tempo of a thousand small drums. Skinny walked slowly, slowly in the gutter. All of him, all of his possessions stuck out. One more clap of thunder stuttered insanely and Skinny scoffed at the scattering people and the mad hunt for shelter. Some huddled in doorways and some huddled under awnings and some made reluctant purchases for the franchise of being legitimate fugitives from the prison of the rain. Skinny and his big wet head was a flawless model for a tragic cartoon as the people fled from the streets and he just wandered in the gutter where the rain spilled over him and sucked his body.”

PoetryRainThunderstorms
Book:Lonely Boy Blues
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