He had accepted her
impersonally along with the office furnishing, the office boy, Morrison, the chief, confidential, and only clerk, and all the rest of the accessories of a superman's gambling place of business.
The man winced a little at the tone of her voice; but his own voice was still
impersonally cool when he spoke again.
Because I think you speak the truth," she said, searching him for proof of this apparently, with eyes now almost
impersonally direct.
Quite
impersonally, she found herself wondering if Charley Long were as strong as Billy.
'For the sick cow a crow; for the sick man a Brahmin.' Kim breathed the proverb
impersonally to the shadow-tops of the trees overhead.
She dropped her chin on her breast and from under her straight eyebrows the deep blue eyes remained fixed on me,
impersonally, as if without thought.
It is scarcely decorous,however, to speak all, even where we speak
impersonally. But, as thoughts are frozen and utterance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true relation with his audience, it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive, though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being thawed by this genial consciousness, we may prate of the circumstances that lie around us, and even of ourself, but still keep the inmost Me behind its veil.
In their place, it strengthens individuals on the one hand and a central government on the other, since such a government is most able to treat individuals equally by treating them all
impersonally. For this reason, a hyper-individualist culture is likely to be governed by a hypercentralized government, and each is likely to exacerbate the worst inclinations of the other.
In the lake, under a mound, screened by these huge skies that marched
impersonally overhead?
He records
impersonally, ostensibly avoiding emotional manipulation, but for all that, his landscapes pack a powerful punch, the strongest in Norwegian painting until Munch.
This is the secret horror, the originary trauma that language half invokes but can never quite fully bring itself to disclose: "none of its letters / produce the horror / at the heart of the index." In response to this, the "old language" becomes knowing, even snarky, but such knowledge is useless: the old language speaks forever from the point of recursive retrospection, mocking the poet who it's using and who's using it for the personal losses it
impersonally records.