Chesterton: A Festive, Mysterious Conflagration

“The French windows, thus flung open, let in an evening even lovelier than that of the day before. The west was swimming with sanguine colors, and a sort of sleepy flame lay along the lawn. The twisted shadows of the one or two garden trees showed upon this sheen, not gray or black, as in common daylight, but like arabesques written in vivid violet ink on some page of Eastern gold. The sunset was one of those festive and yet mysterious conflagrations in which common things by their colors remind us of costly or curious things. The slates upon the sloping roof burned like the plumes of a vast peacock, in every mysterious blend of blue and green. The red-brown bricks of the wall glowed with all the October tints of strong ruby and tawny wines. The sun seemed to set each object alight with a different colored flame, like a man lighting fireworks; and even Innocent’s hair, which was of a rather colorless fairness, seemed to have a flame of pagan gold as he strode across the lawn towards the one tall ridge of rockery.”

– G.K. Chesterton, Manalive (p. 25)

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