Brideshead revisited : the sacred and profane memories of Captain Charles Ryder / a novel by Evelyn Waugh
| dc.contributor | Gilliver, Peter Oxford Dictionaries Oxford University Press Oxford |
| dc.contributor.author | Waugh, Evelyn, 1903-1966 |
| dc.coverage.placeName | London |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-19T14:22:26Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-19T14:22:26Z |
| dc.date.created | 1960 |
| dc.date.issued | 1991-01-24 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0146 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0146 |
| dc.description.abstract | “Re-issued with many small additions and some substantial cuts”. -- First ed. 1945 |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 600 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
| dc.rights | Use of this resource is restricted in some manner. Usually this means that it is available for non-commercial use only with prior permission of the depositor and on condition that this header is included in its entirety with any copy distributed. |
| dc.rights.uri | https://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/licence-ota |
| dc.rights.label | ACA |
| dc.subject.lcsh | English fiction -- 20th century |
| dc.subject.other | Novels |
| dc.title | Brideshead revisited : the sacred and profane memories of Captain Charles Ryder / a novel by Evelyn Waugh |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 613393 |
| files.count | 1 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
Files for this item
- Name
- bheadrevisit-0146.txt
- Size
- 599.02 KB
- Format
- Text file
- Description
- Version of the work in plain text format
<A E. WAUGH> <T Brideshead Revisited>[1960 Eyre Methuen] <P 11> When I reached 'C' Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey mist of early morning. We were leaving that day. When we marched in, three months before, the place was under snow; now the first leaves of spring were unfolding. I had reflected then that, whatever scenes of desolation lay ahead of us, I never feared one more brutal than this, and I reflected now that it had no single happy memory for me. Here love had died between me and the army. Here the tram lines ended, so that men returning fuddled from Glasgow could doze in their seats until roused by their journey's end. There was some way to go from the tram+ top to the camp gates; quarter of a mile in which they could button their blouses and straighten their caps before passing the guard-room, quarter of a mile in which concrete gave place to grass at the road's edge. Th . . .
