Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

One of the many devices employed by writers of fiction is the use of the present tense. I myself have written several works of fiction in the present tense. Soon after I had read the autobiography in which distant windows are likened to spots of golden oil, I began yet another of the drafts that I had already began of a work of fiction that I had for long had in mind. The draft then began was in the present tense.

Two days after Mr. Bennet’s return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking
together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper
coming towards them, and concluding that she came to call them to their
mother, went forward to meet her; but instead of the expected summons,
when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, “I

Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit
her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was, consequently,
resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning.
But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their own
arrival at Lambton these visitors came.

The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning; and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was
able to bring home the pleasing intelligence of their appearing in very
good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the
melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings.

In as short a time as Mr. Collins’s long speeches would allow,
everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that
was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must
be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with
his happiness.

The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the
moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances which he supposed a regular part of the business.

I am starting to miss my Ivry virgin, my living-dead woman whose palpitating flesh knew how to surround mine and inhale my substance. Something that isn't encountered twice in life, nor twice in death...... Melancholy over not even knowing her name. Magic that escapes me. Nevermore.

I don't hat my occupation; it cadeverous ivories, it pallid crockery, all the goods of the dead, the furniture that they made, the tables that they painted, the glasses from which they drank when life was still sweet to them. Truly, the occupation of an antiquarian is a situation almost ideal froa necrophiliac.

Mr. Collims was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms without forming at it any useful acquaintance.

The radio helped me to live. The repetition that didn't always happen gave me a measure of life: a surprise gift for me to unwarp, mad with joy, as the flow of sound made up its mind whether to be the same or different.....This calmed my overeactive memory.

Quilbrex! shouted Fra Armando down the underground corridor, through walls of pale-shining quartz flowers, and the guardian, completely covered in a rubber hazmat suit with a gas mask on his face, let us pass, after he pressed into each of our palms a glass cylinder, thick and warm, pointed at the tip, which he pulled liked expensive candies, from a shite cardboard box.

Because of my illness, I started school three months late, in June. I still can't understand why they accepted me at that stage in the year and put me in with the children who had started on time. Especially since it was first grade, the absolute beginning of my school life (there was no such thing as kindergarten back then), such a crucial and delicate stage.

He was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens

Winston was gelatinous with fatigue. Gelatinous was the right word. It had come into his head spontaneously. His body seemed to have not only the weakness of a jelly, but its translucency. He felt that if he held up his hand he would be able to see the light through it. All the blood amd lymph had been drained out of him by enormous debauch of work, leaving only a frail structure of nevres, bones and skin.

What if transferred myself into his martyred body? i would lay there, forever, a paralyzed jyphotic, dirty with excrement , half rotted, looking at the ceilinh with frightened eyes, while he, in my adolescent body, would run toward the autumnal world, in golden sunlight beyond the windows.

The room they were standing in was long-shaped and softly lit. The telescreen was dimmed to a low murmur; the richness of the dark-blue carpet gave one the impression of treading on velvet. At the far end of the room O'Brien was sitting at a table under a green-shaded lamp, with a mass of papers on either side of him. He had not bothered to look up when the servant showed Julie and Winston in.

Winston had woken up with his eyes full of tears. Julia rolled sleepily against him, murmuring something that might have been 'Whats the matter?'
'I dreamt- ' he began, and stopped short. It was too complex to be put into words. There was the dream itself, and there was a memory connected with it that had swum into his mind in the few seconds after waking.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in the pediatric ward of the Rosario Central Hospital.

I opened my eyes and found myself in a world that was new to me: the world of mothers.

A solitary figure was coming toward him from the other end of the long, brightly lit corridor. It was the girl with dark hair. Four days had gone past since the evening when he had run into her outside the junk shop. As she came nearer he saw that her right arm was in a sling, not noticeable at a distance because it was of the same color as her overalls.

A few months after the tanks of Warsaw Pact entered Czechoslovakia, Romanian Securitate Department V receieved a series of the new assignments, some of which contradicted best practice protocols and had never before been proposed, and were set at the highest levels of state secrecy.

From somewhere at the bottom of a passage the smell of roasting coffee- real coffee, not Victory Coffee- came floating or into the street. Winston paused involuntarily. For perhaps two seconds he was back in the half-forgotten world of his childhood. Then a door banged, seemed to cut off the smell as abruptly as though it had been a sound.

The final component of my treatment was massage. Long after I left the hospital, I continued to do it myself, in the mirror, like a woman worried she's getting old. I'd put a little talcum powder on my fingers, and start with my forehead, pushing my skin toward me temples and noting, day by day, how, if I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, the folds in the left part of my brow took a clearer shape.

With the deep, unconscious sigh which not even the nearness of the telescreen could prevent him from uttering when his day's work started, Winston pulled the speakwrite towards him, blew the dust from its mouthpiece and put on his spectacles. Then he unrolled and clipped togather four small cylinders which had already flopped out of the pneumatic tube on the right-hand side of his desk.

Maybe, in the heart of this book, there is nothing other than howling, yellow, blinding, apocalyptic howling.... Last night, with all of my strength sucked dry, I fell asleep between my flaccid sheets and lay like a corpse frozen on a field, in an utter lack of existence that made death seem like a pointless, agitation, until I reacquired, for the first time in three of four years, my state of notural "revelation"

Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also.

Lily, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to attend to the ladies also.

I recall the first and only hard-on of my childhood with the perplexity I have always had for the old paintings warehoused in the ponderous gallery of my memory, heaps upon heaps of paintings, with supple lichen flowering in layera thicker than collted paint, and the blind scorpions gnawing the pads of their frames.

The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's tea was over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you ould see yourself in the big copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks.

I sit in my chair for a little while longer, in my attic with the oval window, on the edge of a galaxy. A quiet grows rosier as evening falls, interwoven with volatile and benign noises: the continuous song of the doves ()they often stop on the ledge and peer a round eye into the cave behind my window), toilets flushing in other apartments, the limpid cries of the boys playing soccer between cars parked in front.....

Eight year before he had seen hi friend off at North Walland wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.