The death of the month and other essays 1942

Retreating from the Philippines in earlyU. While MacArthur cogitated his revenge, Homma was finishing off the remnants of his last great stand in the Battle of Bataan. Bataan was a victory for Japan, but a bloody and protracted one; it cost the lives of some 7, Japanese, and the three-month battle has sometimes been credited with slowing the Japanese advance sufficiently to safeguard Australia; it also left the occupiers with an unexpectedly huge complement of POWs. More than 60, Filipinos and about 15, Americans endured this harrowing five- or six-day slog — the Bataan Death March.

The Death of the Moth, and other essays, by Virginia Woolf The Death of the Moth Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us.

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They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid—September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months.

The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book.

The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it.

Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.

The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him.

He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth?

That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body.

As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.

Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life.

Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity.

Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity. After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him.

Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him.The Death of the Moth, and other essays. Virginia Woolf.

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This web edition published by [email protected] Last updated Monday, September 14, at To the best of . Adolf Hitler was obsessed with the occult, in his case the Thule Society, closely inter-connected with German Theosophists.

The jolly roger, skull and cross bones, "der Totenkopf" was an emblem worn by Hitler's SS soldiers and was emblazoned on SS armoured cars and tanks (see images on this page).

Lincoln Reconsidered: Essays on the Civil War Era [David Herbert Donald] on urbanagricultureinitiative.com *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. David Herbert Donald, Lincoln biographer and winner of the Pulitzer Prize, has revised and updated his classic and influential book on Lincoln and the era he dominated.

The death of the month and other essays 1942

When Lincoln Reconsidered was first published it ushered in the process of rethinking the Civil War. Langston Hughes was first recognized as an important literary figure during the s, a period known as the "Harlem Renaissance" because of the number of emerging black writers.

THE SPIKE.

The death of the month and other essays 1942

It was late-afternoon. Forty-nine of us, forty-eight men and one woman, lay on the green waiting for the spike to open.

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We were too tired to talk much. The death of the moth: and other essays.

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