gri_2003_m_46_b02_f11_020
- Max. dissimilarity: 0.212
- Mean dissimilarity: 0.119
- Image votes: 0.0
Transcribers
- 65490390 - not-logged-in-9f17e5c9c08266c9ffa5
- 65502535 - JET315
- 65524230 - not-logged-in-d4751df99d11cc141744
- 65640766 - gwynnie
- WINNER - 65684298 - dguent
- 65703339 - YukonRed
65490390 - not-logged-in-9f17e5c9c08266c9ffa5
Sunday- II-XII-1949 DurhamDearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the
close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, the long poem
which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to
be written; I mean your likening of your pictures to "callowed
fruits nourished by my sun. You are yourself a poet for what a significant and lovely image it is - a
crystallisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of
your art
, the only fruit of your libido and your with me is
you tiny self-portrait, shamed in its ruby setting , but this
I often look at, like an early Shakespeare lover surrounded
by sonnets, Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agree-
able sense, but all too naturalistic. My journey here was through
a winter world delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the
fall had not been heavy and nowhere was the snow thick. Green
fans opening under every tree or bush. From Redcar to Middle-
sborough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in
which depression and disgust are both washed, in one observes,
an instinctive sense of wonder at this tangle of little rail-
way lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaus of rubble
on twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a landscape
on the moon. The moon was visible all morning - and it was an
appropriate symbol of the climate, too. From Middlesbrough
to Durham the views, as I say, were wintery but non-industrial.
It took, altogether, in two buses, two and a quarter hours, but,
at last, over the bus-driver's shoulders I saw the central tower.
65502535 - JET315
Sunday - II-XII-1949 DurhamDearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, the long poem which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to be written; I mean your likening of your pictures to 'col-oured fruits' nourished by my sun. You are yourself a poet for what a significant and lovely image it is - a crystalisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of your art, the only fruit of your libido and your skill with me, is your tiny self-portrait, framed in its ruby setting, but this I often look at, like an early Shakespeare lover surrounded by sonnets, Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agree-able sense, but all too naturalistic. My journey here was through a winder world delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the fall had not been heavy and nowhere was the snow thick - green fans opening under every tree or bush. From Redcor to Middle-sborough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in which depression and disgust are less marked, in one observer, than an instinctive sense of wonder at this tangle of little rail-way lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaus of rub-ble as twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a landscape on the moon. The moon was visible all morning - and it was an appropriate symbol of the climate, too. From Middlesboro to Durham the views, as I say, are wintery but non-industrial. It took, altogether, in two buses, two and a quarter hours, but, at least, over the bus-driver's shoulder I saw the central tower.
65524230 - not-logged-in-d4751df99d11cc141744
Sunday - II-XII-1949Dearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, long poem which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to be written ; I mean your likening of your pictures to 'col-
oured fruits' nourished by my sun. You are yourself a pet for what a significant and lonely image it is - a crystalisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of your art, the only fruit of your libido and your ^with me is your tiny self-portrait, framed in its ruby setting, but this I often look at, like an early shakespeare loner surrounded by sonnets. Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agree-
able sense, but all too naturalistic. my journey here was through a delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the fall had not been heavy and was the snow thick - green fans opening under every tree as lush. From Redcon to middle-
sborough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in which depression and disgust are less , in one , an instinctive sense of words at this tangle of little rail-
way lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaus of rub-
ble on twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a lanscape on the moon. The moon was visible all morning - and it was an appropriate symbol of teh climate, too. From middlesboro ' to Durham the , as I say, why but non - undustrial. It took, altogether, in two , two and a quarter hours, but, at last, ones the , I saw the central .
65640766 - gwynnie
Sunday - II-XII-1949 DurhamDearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, the long poem which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to be written; I mean your likening of your pictures to 'coloured fruits' nourished by my sun. You are yourself a poet for what a significant and lovely image it is - a crystallisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of your art, the only fruit of your libido and your skill with me, is your tiny self-portrait, framed in its ruby setting, but this I often look at, like an early Shakespeare lover surrounded by sonnets, Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agreeable sense, but all too naturalistic. My journey here was through a winter world delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the fall had not been heavy and nowhere was the snow thick - green fans opening under every tree or bush. From Redcar to Middlesbrough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in which depression and disgust are less marked, as one observes, than an instinctive sense of wonder at this tangle of little railway lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaux of rubble on twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a landscape on the moon. The moon was visible all morning - and it was an appropriate symbol of the climate, too. From Middlesbro' to Durham the views, as I say, were wintery but non-industrial. It took, altogether, in two buses, two and a quarter hours, but, at last, over the bus driver's shoulder I saw the central town.
WINNER - 65684298 - dguent
DurhamSunday - 11-XII-1949
Dearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, the long poem which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to be written; I mean your likening of your pictures to 'coloured fruits' nourished by my sun. You are yourself a poet for what a significant and lovely image it is - a crystalisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of your art, the only fruit of your libido and your shell with me is your tiny self-portrait, framed in its ruby setting, but this I often look at, like an early Shakespeare lover surrounded by sonnets, Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agreeable sense, but all too naturalistic. My journey here was through a winter world delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the fall had not been heavy and nowhere was the snow thick - green fans opening under every tree or bush. From Redcor to Middlesborough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in which depression and disgust are less marked, in one observes, than an instinctive sense of wonder at this tangle of little railway lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaus of rubble or twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a landscape on the moon. The moon was visible all morning - and it was an appropriate symbol of the climate, too. From Middleboro to Durham the views, as I say, were wintery but non-industrial. It took, altogether, in two buses, two and a quarter hours, but, at last, over the bus-driver's shoulder I saw the central tower.
65703339 - YukonRed
Sunday - 11-XII-1949 DurhamDearest, my dearest Sylvia,
What a beautiful and happy metaphor have you placed at the
close of your last letter and, perfect though it is, the long poem
which seems to take its origin from your phrases, claims to be written; I mean the likening of your pictures to col-
oured fruits nourished by my sun. You are yourself a
poet for what a significant and lovely image it is--a
crystalisation of one aspect of our love. The only example of
your art, the only fruit of your libido and your skill with me is
your tiny self-portrait, framed in its ruby setting, but this
I often look at, like an early Shakespeare lover surrounded
by sonnets, Renaissance imagery, and elegant landscape.
Alas, the landscape is not conspicuously pastoral, in an agree-
able sense, but all too naturalistic. My journey here was through
a winter world delicately and unevenly patterned with snow: the
fall had not been hoary and nowhere was the snow thick--green
lane opening under every tree or bush. From Redcar to Middle-
sborough one traverses an incredible industrial landscape in
which depression and disgust are less marked, in one observer,
than an instinctive sense of wonder at this tangle of little rail-
way lines, fabulous architecture, and great plateaus of rub-
ble on twisted masses of dead stuff suggesting a landscape
on the moon. The moon was invisible all morning--and it was an appropriate symbol of the climate, too. From Middlesboro
to Durham the views, as I say, were wintery but non-industrial.
It took, altogether, in two buses, two and a quarter hours, but,
at last, over the bus-driver's shoulder I saw the central tower.