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- Author: Elizabeth Stoddard
- Publisher: Book Jungle
- Year: 2008
- Pages: 272
- ISBN-10: 1605976849
- ISBN-13: 9781605976846
- Format: 19.1 x 23.5 x 1.5 cm, minkšti viršeliai
- Language: English
- SAVE -10% with code: EXTRA
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...I suppose it was environment that caused me to write these novels; but the mystery of it is, that when I left my native village I did not dream that imagination would lead me there again, for the simple annals of our village and domestic ways did not interest me; neither was I in the least studious. My years were passed in an attempt to have a good time, according to the desires and fancies of youth. Of literature and the literary life, I and my tribe knew nothing; we had not discovered "sermons in stones." Where then was the panorama of my stories and novels stored, that was unrolled in my new sphere? Of course, being moderately intelligent I read everything that came in my way, but merely for amusement. It had been laid up against me as a persistent fault, which was not profitable; I should peruse moral, and pious works, or take up sewing, --that interminable thing, "white seam," which filled the leisure moments of the right-minded. To the personnel of writers I gave little heed; it was the hero they created that charmed me, like Miss Porter's gallant Pole, Sobieski, or the ardent Ernest Maltravers, of Bulwer...
EXTRA 10 % discount with code: EXTRA
The promotion ends in 21d.12:41:19
The discount code is valid when purchasing from 10 €. Discounts do not stack.
- Author: Elizabeth Stoddard
- Publisher: Book Jungle
- Year: 2008
- Pages: 272
- ISBN-10: 1605976849
- ISBN-13: 9781605976846
- Format: 19.1 x 23.5 x 1.5 cm, minkšti viršeliai
- Language: English English
...I suppose it was environment that caused me to write these novels; but the mystery of it is, that when I left my native village I did not dream that imagination would lead me there again, for the simple annals of our village and domestic ways did not interest me; neither was I in the least studious. My years were passed in an attempt to have a good time, according to the desires and fancies of youth. Of literature and the literary life, I and my tribe knew nothing; we had not discovered "sermons in stones." Where then was the panorama of my stories and novels stored, that was unrolled in my new sphere? Of course, being moderately intelligent I read everything that came in my way, but merely for amusement. It had been laid up against me as a persistent fault, which was not profitable; I should peruse moral, and pious works, or take up sewing, --that interminable thing, "white seam," which filled the leisure moments of the right-minded. To the personnel of writers I gave little heed; it was the hero they created that charmed me, like Miss Porter's gallant Pole, Sobieski, or the ardent Ernest Maltravers, of Bulwer...
Reviews