A Sentimental Journey through France and ItalyXist Publishing, 16.09.2015 - 167 Seiten The Birth of Travel Writing “Dear sensibility! Source inexhausted of all that's precious in our joys, or costly in our sorrows! Eternal fountain of our feelings! 'tis here I trace thee and this is thy divinity which stirs within me...All comes from thee, great-great SENSORIUM of the world!” - Laurence Sterne, A Sentimental Journey Parson Yorick is an English traveler who doesn’t know much about plots and how to write proper novels. He knows many things however about human character. So he decides to write his impressions and adventures during his travels in France and Italy. No plot, just his encounters with many different men and women. Xist Publishing is a digital-first publisher. Xist Publishing creates books for the touchscreen generation and is dedicated to helping everyone develop a lifetime love of reading, no matter what form it takes |
Im Buch
Ergebnisse 1-5 von 38
... turning quick upon me, with the most civil triumph in the world.—Strange! quoth I, debating the matter with myself, That one and twenty miles sailing, for 'tis absolutely no further from Dover to Calais, should give a man these rights ...
... turn to any profit:—but, as the chances run prodigiously the other way, both as to the acquisition and application, I am of opinion, That a man would act as wisely, if he could prevail upon himself to live contented without foreign ...
... at you every time you pass by it. Mon Dieu! said Mons. Dessein,—I have no interest—Except the interest, said I, which men of a certain turn of mind take, Mons. Dessein, in their own sensations,—I'm persuaded, to a man CA LA I S. ...
... turning myself about, as a man naturally does upon a sudden reverse of sentiment, —base, ungentle passion! thy hand is against every man, and every man's hand against thee.—Heaven forbid! said she, raising her hand up to her forehead ...
... turning her face towards me, the spirit which had animated the reply was fled,—the muscles relaxed, and I beheld the same unprotected look of distress which first won me to her interest:— melancholy! to see such sprightliness the prey ...