One dark and stormy night in 1956, a stranger named Fludd mysteriously turns up in the dismal village of Fetherhoughton. He is the curate sent by the bishop to assist Father Angwin-or is he? In the most unlikely of places, a superstitious town that understands little of romance or... read more
“The people of Fetherhoughton kept their eyes averted from the moors with a singular effort of will. They did not talk about them. Someone–it was the mark of an outsider–might find a wild dignity and grandeur in the landscape. The Fetherhoughtonians did not look at the landscape at all. They were not Emily Brontë, nor were they paid to be, and the very suggestion that the Brontë-like matter was to hand was enough to close their minds and occupy their eyes with their shoelaces. The moors were the vast cemetery of their imaginations.”
Christ died to free us from the burden of our sin, but he never, so far as she could see, lifted a finger to free us from our stupidity.Highlighted by 4 Kindle customers
unforgiving about any aberration, deviation, eccentricity, or piece of originality. There was a spirit abroad in the village that discriminated so thoroughly against pretension that it also discriminated against ambition, even against literacy.Highlighted by 3 Kindle customers
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