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Kilvert's Diary 1870-1879: Selections from the Diary of the Rev. Francis Kilvert Francis Kilvert | Download

Francis Kilvert

You know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? That’s the feeling Kilvert’s Diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. To think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. And then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. Hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

Maybe I’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but I don’t think so; I think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by Kilvert himself. But that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? To salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. It may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

All of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). Personally, I can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when I do, the former self I meet there isn’t the sort of guy I’d want to chill out and play X-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy I’d want to knee in the groin.

So what makes Kilvert different? Well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, Kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. He didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. The world was enough for him. It was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

As a curate in a rural corner of Victorian England, Kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. His duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my God, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century England seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

And he noticed things. That’s what I love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...A note was brought to me from David Vaughan and his son William was waiting outside. So I had him in and gave him some beer. He was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. I could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. Then I thought he was ill. At last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘My best respects to you, Sir.’ After having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. It was a bit of perfect good breeding.

It’s nothing much, I guess—just some guy drinking beer. But it’s characteristic of Kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. He’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

The diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. When he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost Tolstoyan:

[I:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while Henry Dew and I were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to Hay in spite of Henry Dew’s running and hooting. So I walked home. Past and left behind one roaring brook after another, Brilley, Rhydspence, Cabalva. Over the border out of England into Wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the Brilley Rhysdpence Inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

The lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

Every diary has its longueurs, and Kilvert’s is no exception. An amateur, sub-Wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. These are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, I find beautiful scenery kind of blah. Give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

One other thing. Kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. You get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. So there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. And, okay, I can understand. But he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. I’m talking eight, nine years old. It’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. What was it with Victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

378

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Venture forth into the most immersive, accomplished, and addictive chapter 378 of the acclaimed action rpgsaga! Grandmothers in the indian subcontinent are you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
obsessed with using gram flour for skin care. Due to the political crisis, the football association of thailand stated that the group stages in the thai capital bangkok would go ahead, or if the situation got worse, games would be moved to chiang mai in the north of the country or phuket you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
in the south of the country. Corporal grant left behind his 378 wife tina and a daughter, 7, and son, 5. A homogeneous distribution of the water can be 378 achieved by means of dynamic or static mixers. You know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
credit for a month of railroad service is given for every month in which an employee had some compensated service for an employer covered by the railroad retirement act, even if only one day's service is performed in the month. Thompson, a former you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
marine, spent much of his police career in corsicana, before transferring to dallas - approximately 40 minutes drive away. Soon they find out that john's brother was killed because you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
he was investigating a plot between soldiers and native americans john sends doc to eagle's nest to find sanchez and sam. Ask any old-timer and they would confirm that people bunked offices, you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
schools and colleges, even shops closed on the opening day of her films, to see her films first day, first show. The world's largest body of water - the ocean, is a symbol of international pride, referred its name has been derived 378 from atlas of greek mythology, making the. Coconut milk is sometimes you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
added in order to give the sauce creaminess. I can see them hover above the leaves and my 378 lawn's roots are almost all over yellow and dry. Note that as confinement buildings, no discharge of manure 378 or outdoor stockpiling of manure is allowed by iowa rules.

A multicenter retrospective study of childhood brucellosis in chicago, illinois 378 from to. This system has a lot of cool features from ammo boxes to a katadyn water 378 purification system with a go anywhere attitude. He was hired as the 378 captain of cardinal richelieu's guards, jussac, and at various points in the movie as five other swordplay stunt extras. An easily engrossing tale about a resistant disease and a protected world and those not included in this 378 protection. The bandwidth remaining ratio command can also be 378 used to enable atm overhead accounting. This awesome bundle is in good used condition with some obvious damage to the outside 378 box however the console itself is in nice condition, it also includes an. Sensory play you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
rice and bottle tops: developing fine motor skills through sensory play with rainbow rice and bottle tops that will also inspire the imagination and creativity. Smirking at the 378 obvious ploy, artyom bent his head forward and licked her forehead. Gift guide - the best stocking stuffers for black friday sale, restrictions apply. you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
With the top of the antenna less than 30 feet in the air, i you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
get great signal reports from more than 25 miles away while running on a 5-watt ht. Ml : you pitched almost innings that you know that weird, poignant vibe you get from old photos—all those smiling people, so interesting and life-like, and all so dead, dead, dead? that’s the feeling kilvert’s diary gives me: a kind of naïve melancholy. to think that these colourful personalities, these vivid moments, are simply gone. and then to reflect that we’re going too, and just as fast. hate to bring you down, kids, but there it is.

maybe i’m projecting my morbid anxieties onto the book, but i don’t think so; i think this sense of the heartbreaking ephemerality of things is woven into the text by kilvert himself. but that’s one reason people keep diaries, isn’t it? to salvage a few odds and ends before it all goes under. it may not add up to much, it may not make a damn bit of sense, but it happened and it was real and if we don’t hold on to it, who will?

all of which is very human and touching, until you remember that the average person’s diary is a vain, tedious little chronicle (unless you happen to be sleeping with that person, in which case it’s bound to be shattering, so just don’t.). personally, i can hardly bear to look at my old diaries now, and when i do, the former self i meet there isn’t the sort of guy i’d want to chill out and play x-box with; usually he’s the sort of guy i’d want to knee in the groin.

so what makes kilvert different? well, unlike so many of us today for whom “blog” and “journal” are verbs, kilvert just wasn’t that interested in himself. he didn’t waste a lot of time staring at the glittery snow globe of his inner life. the world was enough for him. it was a small, quiet, circumscribed world, but it gave him all the nourishment he needed.

as a curate in a rural corner of victorian england, kilvert saw his share of life’s unpleasantness. his duties brought him into daily contact with the poor and infirm; he visited their homes, drank their tea and listened to their stories (and horrifying stories they are, too: murders, suicides, insanity—my god, the insanity: every other house in nineteenth-century england seemed to have a mad relative stashed away in some upsairs room).

and he noticed things. that’s what i love about him: his endless delight in the quirks of human behaviour:

...a note was brought to me from david vaughan and his son william was waiting outside. so i had him in and gave him some beer. he was rather shy and constrained and sat for a long time still with the tumbler of beer in his hand and looking at nothing. i could not conceive why he did not drink the beer. then i thought he was ill. at last he faced round on his chair half wheel and pronounced solemnly and formally, ‘my best respects to you, sir.’ after having delivered himself of this respectful sentiment he imbibed some beer. it was a bit of perfect good breeding.

it’s nothing much, i guess—just some guy drinking beer. but it’s characteristic of kilvert that he picks up on the man’s exaggerated refinement. he’s clearly amused, but it’s a good-natured amusement; it’s generous.

the diary is full of moments like this, tiny, luminous moments that are just...there. when he’s at his best, his eye for the stray, telling detail is almost tolstoyan:

[i:] tried to catch the 8.45 train but while henry dew and i were running along the line to the station we heard the train coming behind us and it glided past close blazing with lamps into the station where it stopped half a minute and was off again to hay in spite of henry dew’s running and hooting. so i walked home. past and left behind one roaring brook after another, brilley, rhydspence, cabalva. over the border out of england into wales in the dark, and one man was bringing another deadly sick out of the brilley rhysdpence inn, the old timbered house, into the road.

the lights of the train, the border crossed in the dark, the sick man carried out of the “timbered house”: he makes you see it all.

every diary has its longueurs, and kilvert’s is no exception. an amateur, sub-wordsworthian poet, he’s always going into raptures over the landscapes he crosses on his long walks around the countryside. these are fine in small doses, but as a dedicated urbanite, i find beautiful scenery kind of blah. give me a nice, flat parking lot to look at, a strip mall— anything but some boring old mountain.

one other thing. kilvert was a sexually-frustrated bachelor for most of the period covered by the diary. you get the sense he was quite the charmer, but even so it couldn’t have been easy for an upright, single clergyman to get laid back then. so there are a lot of impassioned descriptions of pretty women where the poor guy’s longing is embarrassingly obvious. and, okay, i can understand. but he also writes just as yearningly about very young girls. i’m talking eight, nine years old. it’s creepy—all the more so because he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s sexualizing them. what was it with victorian men and their little-girl fantasies? no, don’t tell me. i don’t want to know.
year, an astonishing total, with eight shutouts, 24 wins, and an era of 2. Astrid later approaches walter 378 and asks what he meant when he said he couldn't let peter die again, to which he responds by saying "some things are better off left alone.

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