the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt seven)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

He exhaled a vast cloud of smoke and said darkly:

‘That house is turning into a veritable sink of iniquity!

‘Into a what‚ Senhor Paula?’

‘A sink of iniquity‚ Senhora Helena‚ it means “a brothel”.’

And the scandalised patriot strode away.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt six)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

The house itself had a gentle‚ old-fashioned air: in the visiting room‚ which was only rarely used‚ the vast sofa and armchairs had the stiff appearance of the days of Dom José I‚ and the faded red damask upholstery was reminiscent of the grandeur of a decadent court; the dining room walls were hung with engravings depicting Napoleon’s first battles‚ all of which included a white horse standing on a hill towards which a hussar was galloping at breakneck speed‚ brandishing a sabre. Sebastião slept his dreamless seven hours’ sleep in an ancient bed made from carved blackwood; and in a dark little room‚ beneath the subtle sounds of mice scrabbling in the rafters‚ on a chest of drawers with gold metal handles‚ there stood‚ as he had for years‚ the patron saint of the house‚ St Sebastian‚ bristling with arrows and struggling against the cords that bound him to the tree trunk‚ and lit by an oil lamp carefully tended by Tia Joana.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt five)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

Dona Felicidade was reading Rocambole. So many people had told her how wonderful it was! But it was so convoluted! She got lost‚ she forgot the plot … In fact‚ she was going to abandon it altogether‚ having noticed that reading seemed to exacerbate her indigestion.

‘Do you suffer much from indigestion?’ asked Bazilio out of polite interest.

Dona Felicidade launched into an account of her dyspepsia. Bazilio recommended using ice. And he congratulated her‚ because‚ lately‚ illnesses of the stomach had become positively chic. He asked after hers and requested more details.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt four)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

Ernestinho entered the room‚ taking short‚ rapid steps‚ and flung his arms around Jorge.

‘I heard that you were leaving‚ cousin Jorge. How are you‚ cousin Luiza?’

He was Jorge’s cousin. A slight‚ listless figure‚ whose slender limbs‚ still barely formed‚ gave him the fragile appearance of a schoolboy; his sparse moustache‚ thick with wax‚ stood up at either end with points sharp as needles; and in his gaunt face‚ beneath fleshy lids‚ his eyes looked dull and lethargic. He was wearing patent leather shoes with large bows on them; and dangling from his watch chain over his white waistcoat was a huge gold medallion bearing a bas relief of enamelled fruits and flowers. He lived with an actress from the Ginásio–a scrawny‚ sallow-skinned woman with very curly hair and a tubercular look about her–and he wrote for the theatre. He had done translations‚ written two original one-act plays and a comedy full of puns. Lately he had been rehearsing a longer work at the Teatro das Variedades‚ a drama in five acts‚ entitled Honour and Passion. It was his first serious play. With his pockets stuffed with manuscripts‚ he was now constantly having to deal with journalists and actors‚ buying coffees and cognacs for everyone‚ his hat awry‚ his face pale‚ telling all and sundry: ‘This life will be the death of me!’ He wrote out of a deep love of Art‚ for he was an employee in the Customs Office‚ with a good salary and five hundred mil réis in government bonds. It was Art‚ he said‚ that was obliging him to spend money: for the ball scene in Honour and Passion‚ he had‚ at his own expense‚ ordered patent leather boots for the leading man and for the actor playing the father. His family name was Ledesma.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt three)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

That night‚ they were talking about the Alentejo‚ about the treasures to be found in Évora‚ about the Chapel of Bones‚ when the Councillor came in with his coat over his arm. He placed it carefully on a chair in one corner and then made his prim‚ officious way over to Luiza‚ took both her hands in his and said in lofty‚ sonorous tones:

‘I hope I find my dear‚ good Senhora Dona Luiza in perfect health. Jorge told me as much. So glad! So very glad!’

He was tall‚ thin and dressed all in black‚ with a high collar tight around his neck. His face‚ with its pointed chin‚ grew wider and wider until it reached his vast‚ gleaming bald pate‚ which had a slight dent on top; the fringe of hair‚ that formed a kind of collar around the back of his head‚ from ear to ear‚ was dyed a lustrous black‚ and this only made his bald head‚ by contrast‚ appear even glossier; he did not‚ however‚ dye his abundant‚ greying moustache‚ which grew down around the corners of his mouth. He was extremely pale and never removed his dark glasses. He had a cleft in his chin and large‚ protruding ears.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt two)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

Dona Felicidade de Noronha would normally arrive at nine o’clock. She would come in‚ arms outstretched‚ smiling her broad‚ kindly smile. She was fifty years old and very plump‚ and since she suffered from dyspepsia and wind‚ she could not‚ at that hour‚ wear corsets and so her opulent figure remained unconstrained. There were a few grey threads in her slightly curly hair‚ but she had a smooth‚ round‚ full face and the soft‚ dull white complexion of a nun; beneath her fleshy eyelids‚ the skin around which was already lined‚ shone two dark‚ moist‚ very mobile pupils; and the few soft hairs at the corners of her mouth looked like two faint circumflexes drawn with the finest of quills. She had been Luiza’s mother’s closest friend and had got into the habit of visiting ‘little Luiza’ on Sundays. Born into a noble family–the Noronhas of Redondela–and with influential relatives in Lisbon‚ she was rather devout and often to be seen at the convent church of the Incarnation.

the last book I ever read (Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz, excerpt one)

from Cousin Bazilio by Jose Maria Eça de Queiroz (Translated by Margaret Jull Costa):

Leopoldina was twenty-seven. She was not tall‚ but she was considered to have the best figure of any woman in Lisbon. She always wore very close-fitting dresses that emphasised and clung to every curve of her body‚ with narrow skirts gathered in at the back. Men rolled their eyes and said: ‘She’s like a statue‚ a Venus!’ She had the full‚ softly rounded shoulders of an artist’s model; and one sensed‚ even beneath the bodice of her dress‚ that her breasts had the firm‚ harmonious form of two lovely lemon halves; the luscious‚ ample line of her hips and certain voluptuous movements of her waist attracted men’s lustful glances. Her face‚ though‚ was somewhat coarse; there was something too fleshly about her flared nostrils; and her fine skin‚ with its warm‚ olive glow‚ bore the marks of faded smallpox scars. Her greatest beauty lay in her intensely dark eyes‚ liquid and languid‚ and their very long lashes.

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt fourteen)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“I should think the novelty of the emotion must have given you a thrill of real pleasure, Dorian,” interrupted Lord Henry. “But I can finish your idyll for you. You gave her good advice and broke her heart. That was the beginning of your reformation.”

“Harry, you are horrible! You mustn’t say these dreadful things. Hetty’s heart is not broken. Of course, she cried and all that. But there is no disgrace upon her. She can live, like Perdita, in her garden of mint and marigold.”

“And weep over a faithless Florizel,” said Lord Henry, laughing, as he leaned back in his chair. “My dear Dorian, you have the most curiously boyish moods. Do you think this girl will ever be really content now with any one of her own rank? I suppose she will be married some day to a rough carter or a grinning ploughman. Well, the fact of having met you, and loved you, will teach her to despise her husband, and she will be wretched. From a moral point of view, I cannot say that I think much of your great renunciation. Even as a beginning, it is poor. Besides, how do you know that Hetty isn’t floating at the present moment in some starlit mill-pond, with lovely water-lilies round her, like Ophelia?”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt thirteen)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“Culture and corruption,” echoed Dorian. “I have known something of both. It seems terrible to me now that they should ever be found together. For I have a new ideal, Harry. I am going to alter. I think I have altered.”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt twelve)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

“Isn’t he incorrigible?” cried Dorian, leaning forward in his chair.

“I hope so,” said his hostess, laughing. “But really, if you all worship Madame de Ferrol in this ridiculous way, I shall have to marry again so as to be in the fashion.”

“You will never marry again, Lady Narborough,” broke in Lord Henry. “You were far too happy. When a woman marries again, it is because she detested her first husband. When a man marries again, it is because he adored his first wife. Women try their luck; men risk theirs.”

the last book I ever read (Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, excerpt eleven)

from The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde:

It was rumoured of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive simplicity of its elements and the eternal pathos of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the “panis caelestis,” the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice and smiting his breast for his sins. The fuming censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet, tossed into the air like great gilt flowers had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives.

But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic doctrines of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal.