The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud furious roar.
Friday, July 23, 2010
like a field of corn moved by an angry wind
Your daily divine Dickens mega-sentence, from Chapter 50 of Oliver Twist. It becomes clear to me that had Dickens painted rather than wrote, we'd have had a second Pieter Bruegel.