Warwick Deeping

thumb| George Warwick Deeping (28 May 1877 – 20 April 1950) was an English novelist and short story writer, whose best-known novel was Sorrell and Son (1925). Quotes Men can love a tree, a cottage, a stream; Flavian loved Avalon as being the temple of the unutterable memories of the past. Love among the Ruins (London: Grant Richards, 1904), pt. 3, ch. 28, p. 203 He had reverted...to the little barbarisms of the struggling 'thirties, when he had scuffled with life in his shirt-sleeves. Old Pybus (Toronto: The Ryerson Press, 1928), ch. 1, sec. 4, p. 7 Uther and Igraine (1903) New York: The Outlook Company thumb|A good soldier should ride into Paradise bearing the soul of the woman he loved. thumb|Colour shifted upon the bosom of the sea. Blue, green, and grey it would sweep into the west, netted gold with the sun, banded with foam, or spread with purple beneath the drifting shadow of a cloud. He thanked God in his heart that he had plucked her blemishless from gradual death. It was even thus, he thought, that a good soldier should ride into Paradise bearing the soul of the woman he loved. Bk. 1, ch. 4, p. 34 I think my whole soul was made for beauty, my whole desire born for fair and lovely things. You will smile at me for a dreamer, but often my thoughts seem to fly through forests — marvellous green glooms all drowned in moonlight. I love to hear the wind, to watch the great oaks battling, to see the sea one laugh of gold. Every sunset harrows me into a moan of woe. I can sing to the stars at night — songs such as the woods weave from the voice of a gentle wind, dew-ladened, green and lovely. Sometimes I feel faint for sheer love of this fair earth. Bk. 1, ch. 6, pp. 56-57 She climbed out, and stood like a water nymph, her body agleam and asparkle with its dew, her skin like rare silk, smooth as a star's glance. Down fell her hair like smoke. She stretched her arms to the moon, and laughed, aglow with the warmth gotten of her swim. Bk. 1, ch. 8, p. 72 The black moth night had come into the sky with his golden-spotted wings all spread. Bk. 1, ch. 9, p. 86 Her grace, her infinite tenderness, the purity of her, were all set about his soul like angels round a dreamer's bed. Bk. 1, ch. 10, p. 88 She lay still awhile, and let her thoughts dance like the motes in the shimmer of sunlight that stole in between the branches. Bk. 1, ch. 10, pp. 90-91 Night was in the sky, night in her winter austerity — keen, clear, aglitter with stars as though her robe were spangled with cosmic frost. Bk. 3, ch. 4, p. 228 The castle of Tintagel stood out above the sea on a headland that rose bluffly above the white foam that girdled it. The waves swinging in from the west seemed to lift ever a hoarse chant about the place with their perpetual grumbling against the cliff. Colour shifted upon the bosom of the sea. Blue, green, and grey it would sweep into the west, netted gold with the sun, banded with foam, or spread with purple beneath the drifting shadow of a cloud. Hills rose in the east. Between these crags and the sea rolled a wilderness cloven by green valleys and a casual stream. Tintagel seemed to crown a region grand and calamitous as the sea itself. Bk. 4, ch. 1, p. 327 External links Category:1877 births Category:1950 deaths Category:Novelists from England Category:Short story writers from England Category:Historical novelists Category:University of Cambridge alumni Category:People from Southend-on-Sea