Were I to distill the Aubrey-Maturin books of Patrick O’Brian into two sentences, it would be these ones from Desolation Island:
They played, not beautifully but deep, ignoring their often discordant strings and striking right into the heart of the music they knew best, the true notes acting as their milestones. On the poop above their heads, where the weary helmsmen tended the new steering-oar and Babbington stood at the con, the men listened intently; it was the first sound of human life that they had heard, apart from the brief Christmas merriment, for a time they could scarcely measure.
Continued from Open thread 169
Continued in Open Thread 171