By: J.D. Beresford

He sat in an enceinte of piled volumes.

By: Valery Bryusov

The sense of property vanished.

By: J.D. Beresford

“His mind is a magnificent, terrible machine.”

By: Valery Bryusov

Some simulated madness in order to escape punishment.

By: J.D. Beresford

“I am determined that this infidel child shall go to school.”

By: Valery Bryusov

They fled in fright to the outskirts of the town.

By: J.D. Beresford

“So elementary… inchoate… a disjunctive… patchwork”

By: Valery Bryusov

Everyone fled who could.

By: J.D. Beresford

“Books,” he said.

By: Valery Bryusov

Life was standardised even to the most minute details.

By: J.D. Beresford

“What should I learn out of all them books?”

By: Valery Bryusov

The number of working hours in the day were small in the extreme.

By: J.D. Beresford

“‘Oo is God?”

By: H.G. Wells

“Smart degenerates,” he muttered. “Anæmic cockneydom.”

By: J.D. Beresford

“Didn’t you have a little of the ‘fifth form’ feeling?”