Genres

London

London is the capital and largest city of both England and the United Kingdom.

New Releases Tagged "London"

A Founding Mother: A Novel of Abigail Adams

I Hear A New World (The Long London Quintet, #2)

London Falling: A Mysterious Death in a Gilded City and a Family's Search for Truth

When the Wolves Are Silent (Sebastian St. Cyr, #21)

Lists

Bloomsbury

110 books — 41 voters

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O'Brien

Racso and the Rats of NIMH by Jane Leslie Conly

R-T, Margaret, and the Rats of NIMH by Jane Leslie Conly

Tim

85 books — 31 voters

From the Erzgebirge to Potosi by Sean Daly

What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew by Daniel Pool

Sexuality and Its Impact on History by Hunter S. Jones

Victorian Britain (nonfiction)

145 books — 82 voters

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

Birth Of The Monster by Shane K.P. O'Neill

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Great Supernatural Thrillers & Horror - 19th Century

57 books — 67 voters

The World Turned Upside Down by Christopher Hill

Cavaliers and Roundheads by Christopher Hibbert

The English Civil Wars 1640 - 1660

95 books — 36 voters

Is He Ever Going to Leave His Wife? by Martess Dowling

Famous Friends, Family or people I worked for/with

226 books — 32 voters

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“ LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one mi LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes — gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another’s umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest. Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds. Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery. ...more ”
― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

129 likes

“ On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes, the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes. I wipe them away with a black woolly glove And try not to notice I've fallen in love On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think: This is nothing. you're high on the charm and the drink. But the juke-box inside me is playing a song That says something different. And when was it wrong? On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair I am tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care. the head does its best but ...more ”
― Wendy Cope, Serious Concerns

106 likes

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