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Leila's Books
Symponies
Symponies
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This ebook edition has been proofed and corrected for errors and compiled to read with pleasure!
***
Our best stories are ever untold — I like to think of them
stored away in some monster aerial library of the
unwritten works of human fancy: dream stories
that unfold in the darkness like silver flowers with
jewelled stamens — only to tarnish with
our first awakening consciousness of their value — as copy.
-G.E.
Contents:
A CHILIAN EPISODE
THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK
SEA PINKS
A NOCTURNE
OONY
AT THE HEART OF THE APPLE
PAN
***
An excerpt from the the beginning of the last story:
PAN
A HONEY golden noontide — blinding sun-glare beating on to a long white road in a world of quivering yellows; gold of saffron, gold of topaz, gold of jonquil and dropping laburnum bloom; a gorgeous, glowing, seething play of sunshine turning the world into an orange dream with changeful shafts of ochre and gamboge. The maize fields stood proudly like a phalanx of golden spears guarding the hill sides, and rising above them the mountains, purple-clad messengers, bent to the south — La Rune nodding to the Trois Couronnes. One could almost hear the vibrations of the heat in warm waves, between the tinkling of the neck bells and the long call of the bullock drivers; and, if one were to listen more intently, the silken swish of the waves sending a shrewd whisper to the land, heavy with scent of lime and tuberose, would fall regularly on one's ear as the breath of a sleeping child — one could see the silver cressets dance in the amber light down below, where the gorgeous pavilions and white villas with their gaily striped awnings, in the little Basque French town, clasped the bay in horseshoe form. The highway was animated, for troops of shaggy mules and pannier-laden asses filed up the winding road, great mild-eyed cream-coloured oxen — the new breed, outcome of the cross between the hardy red race of the mountains and the fighting Spanish bull, named in an impossible Basque word, the colour of the maize when ripe — dragged patiently along, peering out from under their head covers of dyed goatskins. Acquaintances met and greeted constantly, for the town was filled with bathing guests, and there had been a big market, so that commodities of every kind met with a ready sale.
The men and women swung noiselessly along like gladsome shadows, for their feet were shod in hempen solid espartinac, ankle-bound, with gaily coloured tapes.
***
Our best stories are ever untold — I like to think of them
stored away in some monster aerial library of the
unwritten works of human fancy: dream stories
that unfold in the darkness like silver flowers with
jewelled stamens — only to tarnish with
our first awakening consciousness of their value — as copy.
-G.E.
Contents:
A CHILIAN EPISODE
THE CAPTAIN'S BOOK
SEA PINKS
A NOCTURNE
OONY
AT THE HEART OF THE APPLE
PAN
***
An excerpt from the the beginning of the last story:
PAN
A HONEY golden noontide — blinding sun-glare beating on to a long white road in a world of quivering yellows; gold of saffron, gold of topaz, gold of jonquil and dropping laburnum bloom; a gorgeous, glowing, seething play of sunshine turning the world into an orange dream with changeful shafts of ochre and gamboge. The maize fields stood proudly like a phalanx of golden spears guarding the hill sides, and rising above them the mountains, purple-clad messengers, bent to the south — La Rune nodding to the Trois Couronnes. One could almost hear the vibrations of the heat in warm waves, between the tinkling of the neck bells and the long call of the bullock drivers; and, if one were to listen more intently, the silken swish of the waves sending a shrewd whisper to the land, heavy with scent of lime and tuberose, would fall regularly on one's ear as the breath of a sleeping child — one could see the silver cressets dance in the amber light down below, where the gorgeous pavilions and white villas with their gaily striped awnings, in the little Basque French town, clasped the bay in horseshoe form. The highway was animated, for troops of shaggy mules and pannier-laden asses filed up the winding road, great mild-eyed cream-coloured oxen — the new breed, outcome of the cross between the hardy red race of the mountains and the fighting Spanish bull, named in an impossible Basque word, the colour of the maize when ripe — dragged patiently along, peering out from under their head covers of dyed goatskins. Acquaintances met and greeted constantly, for the town was filled with bathing guests, and there had been a big market, so that commodities of every kind met with a ready sale.
The men and women swung noiselessly along like gladsome shadows, for their feet were shod in hempen solid espartinac, ankle-bound, with gaily coloured tapes.
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