I remember the last time I saw Macbeth played, the discrepancy I felt at the changes of garment which he varied, the shiftings and reshiftings, like a Romish priest at mass.

Stevenson tells us of the ways and works of simple men, their sailorings, their fightings, their treasure-seeking, their love and hatred.

Few have the same root and branch obsession with the recent past or the avenger’s recall (‘the necessity for long memory and sarcasm in argument’, as he wrote apropos the old left intelligentsia in New York).

On shallow waters they moved upstream using small barlings; …