ISBN: 1443719862

[EAN: 9781443719865], [PU: Beston Press], Brand NEW unread book. Soft cover bound book. We ship using Royal Mail or courier in the UK and Europe with tracking number for heavier or more v… More...

[EAN: 9781443719865], [PU: Beston Press], Brand NEW unread book. Soft cover bound book. We ship using Royal Mail or courier in the UK and Europe with tracking number for heavier or more valuable items. All USA orders have a parcel tracking number.D0 THE LEGEND OF JERRY LADD THIS DREAMER COMETH WAS always fond of him, said one, as you all know. But hewasafool. Or a genius, said another. You never can tell. A child rather, I should say, observed a third. He never grew up. But something of a poet too, dont you think ventured a womans voice. Though not in verse, or prose either, for that matter. In life, I mean. Well, yes, one of them conceded, in a juster tone than he had used before. Jerry was what you might call a rhapsodist. Certainly an unpractical man. An idealist, a dreamer, always. illusionist is the better word, another voice sug- gested. That is to say, interposed the one who had used a harsher name, he was a visionary. Oh, yes. He was always seeing visions, Jerry was, murmured another who had not yet spoken. He was not of this world. He was always a stranger here. Let us hope that he is more at home where he is now. And all were silent. It was that silence of remem- brance, more eloquent, more final than any speech - each one waiting in the consciousness that, after all, a visionarys life could only be summed up in reverie. And yet, somehow, the woman did find words for it, saying them softly like a sigh - Poor St. Jerry And all the rest, surprised in their own compassion, and astonished that it should be so simply and yet so perfectly revealed in words, and in the very spirit of the one thus canonized forever in the calendar of their remembrance, looked up and smiled. Such were the doubtful verdicts of the world when he was gone. Often, since, I have been haunted by his story. It is a tale more common than I used to think. I have known few like him, but I have met often, in the thoroughfares of life, strange faces in whose lights and shadows I have seen his own again. And, for his sake, I have always felt for them a certain friendliness of pity - a wistful, helpless, hopeless kind of pity, for however I may think, or write, about him just as however I tried to hold him, as it were, when he was here - he always eludes my imagination as he did my hand. His coat-tails always seemed slipping from my grasp. And even now I scarce know how to keep his memory fast long enough to be quite sure that it is fairly and truly here. Of those doubtful verdicts, each one, perhaps, was partly right. But, on the other hand, it is very likely that none of us did Jerry justice. I do not pretend to say. All I can be sure of is that he seldom saw with our eyes at all, nor we with his. Sometimes, touched to a kind of tenderness that one does not easily confess, I am inclined to think that it was he who had the truer vision that he saw more deeply than the rest of us. But he was so unpractical, and he was such an ungovernable enthusiast for those lovely desirable things that we all dream of when we are young, but fail, somehow, to realize in our maturity. And he would not compromise with life. Could not, it may be. That was the exasperating thing about him. That was what made ones fingers ache, sometimes, to shake him into what the world calls common sense.<

ISBN: 1443719862

[EAN: 9781443719865], BRAND NEW PRINT ON DEMAND., The Legend of Jerry Ladd, Rashleigh Holtwhite, D0 THE LEGEND OF JERRY LADD THIS DREAMER COMETH WAS always fond of him, said one, as you a… More...

[EAN: 9781443719865], BRAND NEW PRINT ON DEMAND., The Legend of Jerry Ladd, Rashleigh Holtwhite, D0 THE LEGEND OF JERRY LADD THIS DREAMER COMETH WAS always fond of him, said one, as you all know. But hewasafool. Or a genius, said another. You never can tell. A child rather, I should say, observed a third. He never grew up. But something of a poet too, dont you think ventured a womans voice. Though not in verse, or prose either, for that matter. In life, I mean. Well, yes, one of them conceded, in a juster tone than he had used before. Jerry was what you might call a rhapsodist. Certainly an unpractical man. An idealist, a dreamer, always. illusionist is the better word, another voice sug- gested. That is to say, interposed the one who had used a harsher name, he was a visionary. Oh, yes. He was always seeing visions, Jerry was, murmured another who had not yet spoken. He was not of this world. He was always a stranger here. Let us hope that he is more at home where he is now. And all were silent. It was that silence of remem- brance, more eloquent, more final than any speech - each one waiting in the consciousness that, after all, a visionarys life could only be summed up in reverie. And yet, somehow, the woman did find words for it, saying them softly like a sigh - Poor St. Jerry And all the rest, surprised in their own compassion, and astonished that it should be so simply and yet so perfectly revealed in words, and in the very spirit of the one thus canonized forever in the calendar of their remembrance, looked up and smiled. Such were the doubtful verdicts of the world when he was gone. Often, since, I have been haunted by his story. It is a tale more common than I used to think. I have known few like him, but I have met often, in the thoroughfares of life, strange faces inwhose lights and shadows I have seen his own again. And, for his sake, I have always felt for them a certain friendliness of pity - a wistful, helpless, hopeless kind of pity, for however I may think, or write, about him just as however I tried to hold him, as it were, when he was here - he always eludes my imagination as he did my hand. His coat-tails always seemed slipping from my grasp. And even now I scarce know how to keep his memory fast long enough to be quite sure that it is fairly and truly here. Of those doubtful verdicts, each one, perhaps, was partly right. But, on the other hand, it is very likely that none of us did Jerry justice. I do not pretend to say. All I can be sure of is that he seldom saw with our eyes at all, nor we with his. Sometimes, touched to a kind of tenderness that one does not easily confess, I am inclined to think that it was he who had the truer vision that he saw more deeply than the rest of us. But he was so unpractical, and he was such an ungovernable enthusiast for those lovely desirable things that we all dream of when we are young, but fail, somehow, to realize in our maturity. And he would not compromise with life. Could not, it may be. That was the exasperating thing about him. That was what made ones fingers ache, sometimes, to shake him into what the world calls common sense.<