It is a truth universally acknowledged by Michael Molitch-Hou
It is a truth universally acknowledged,
that a single man in possession of a good fortune
must be in want of a wife:
a poem by Michael Molitch-Hou
All this happened more or less:
Once upon a midnight dreary
In my younger and more vulnerable years
God created the heaven and the earth.
[A screaming comes across the sky.]
It was the best of times
All praise is due to Allah.
It was the worst of times
Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral of the Galaxy
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
it was the age of wisdom
As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
it was the age of foolishness
Mr and Mrs Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
it was the epoch of belief
In endless space countless luminous spheres, round each of which some dozen smaller illuminated ones revolve, hot at the core and covered with a hard cold crust; on this crust a mouldy film has produced living and knowing beings: this is empirical truth, the real, the world.
it was the epoch of incredulity
The wealth of those societies, in which the capitalist mode of production prevails presents itself as “an immense accumulation of commodities” its unit being a single commodity.
When in the Course of human events
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
it was the season of Light
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.
it was the season of Darkness
It was a dark and stormy night.
If music be the food of love
I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.
it was the spring of hope
A merry little surge of electricity piped by automatic alarm from the mood organ beside his bed awakened Rick Deckard.
it was the winter of despair
A spectre is haunting Europe.
Hm! So here we are?
If you really want to hear about it
The world is everything
that is the case.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
Everyone now knows how to find the meaning of life
You better not never tell nobody but God.
