| Results | Score |
|---|---|
| In Prose: Chapter 1, James Joyce —If we are a priest-ridden race we ought to be proud of it! They are the apple of God's eye. TOUCH THEM NOT, says Christ, FOR THEY ARE THE APPLE OF MY EYE. . . . | 9.623891830444336 |
| In Poems: Canto IV, Ezra Pound under the apple trees, . . . | 7.890466690063477 |
| In Poems: Canto III, Ezra Pound And from the apple, mælid, . . . | 7.890466690063477 |
| In Drama: Act IV, George Bernard Shaw The look is quite lost on him: he eats his apple with a dreamy expression of happiness, as it is quite a good one. . . . | 6.896284580230713 |
| In Drama: Act IV, George Bernard Shaw HIGGINS [enlightened, but not at all impressed] Oh, thats whats worrying you, is it? [He thrusts his hands into his pockets, and walks about in his usual manner, rattling the contents of his pockets, as if condescending to a trivial subject out of p . . . | 6.862913608551025 |
| In Poems: The Fourth Canto, Ezra Pound Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf under the apple trees, . . . | 6.797473430633545 |
| In Prose: Part One, Ford Madox Ford And yet I swear by the sacred name of my creator that it was true. It was true sunshine; the true music; the true splash of the fountains from the mouth of stone dolphins. For, if for me we were four people with the same tastes, with the same desire . . . | 6.472847938537598 |
| In Prose: Chapter 1, James Joyce —O, by God, he cried, I forgot little old Paul Cullen! Another apple of God's eye! . . . | 6.3827290534973145 |
| In Prose: Wandering Rocks, James Joyce He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck. . . . | 6.246863842010498 |
| In Prose: Chapter 8, Ernest Hemingway We had a good meal, a roast chicken, new green beans, mashed potatoes, a salad, and some apple-pie and cheese. . . . | 5.991775989532471 |
| In Drama: Act IV, George Bernard Shaw HIGGINS. [slinging the core of the apple decisively into the grate] Tosh, Eliza. Dont you insult human relations by dragging all this cant about buying and selling into it. You neednt marry the fellow if you dont like him. . . . | 5.944601535797119 |
| In Prose: Sirens, James Joyce Cowley’s red lugs and Adam’s apple in the door of the sheriff’s office. Avoid. Goulding a chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait. . . . | 5.871888637542725 |
| In Prose: Part Three, Ford Madox Ford It appeared to them a singular extravagance when, one day, a photographer was brought over from the county town and photographed them standing, all seven, in the shadow of an old apple tree with the grey lichen on the raddled trunk. But it wasn’t . . . | 5.4247660636901855 |
| In Prose: Ithaca, James Joyce The necessity of order, a place for everything and everything in its place: the deficient appreciation of literature possessed by females: the incongruity of an apple incuneated in a tumbler and of an umbrella inclined in a closestool: the insecurit . . . | 5.222322463989258 |
| In Prose: Telemachus, James Joyce Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn . . . | 5.018391132354736 |
| In Prose: Chapter 5, James Joyce APRIL 5. Wild spring. Scudding clouds. O life! Dark stream of swirling bogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers. Eyes of girls among the leaves. Girls demure and romping. All fair or auburn: no dark ones. They blush better . . . | 5.000898361206055 |
| In Prose: Sirens, James Joyce Down stage he strode some paces, grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A l . . . | 4.670860767364502 |
| In Prose: Ithaca, James Joyce A commode, one leg fractured, totally covered by square cretonne cutting, apple design, on which rested a lady’s black straw hat. Orangekeyed ware, bought of Henry Price, basket, fancy goods, chinaware and ironmongery manufacturer, 21, 22, 23 Moor . . . | 4.531776428222656 |
| In Prose: Chapter Five, F. Scott Fitzgerald He took out a pile of shirts and began throwing them, one by one, before us, shirts of sheer linen and thick silk and fine flannel, which lost their folds as they fell and covered the table in many-colored disarray. While we admired he brought more . . . | 4.308050632476807 |
| In Prose: Symbolism in Painting, William Butler Yeats Every visionary knows that the mind’s eye soon comes to see a capricious and variable world, which the will cannot shape or change, though it can call it up and banish it again. I closed my eyes a moment ago, and a company of people in blue robes . . . | 4.195882797241211 |
| In Prose: Chapter 3, James Joyce —Alas, my dear little boys, they too fell. The devil, once a shining angel, a son of the morning, now a foul fiend came in the shape of a serpent, the subtlest of all the beasts of the field. He envied them. He, the fallen great one, could not bea . . . | 4.195882797241211 |
| In Prose: Proteus, James Joyce She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges Figgis’ window on Monday look . . . | 4.169931888580322 |
| In Prose: Chapter 4, James Joyce The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the grey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it . . . | 4.035358905792236 |
| In Prose: Araby, James Joyce The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few pape . . . | 3.9543256759643555 |
| In Prose: Chapter 1, James Joyce Stephen looked at the faces of the fellows but they were all looking across the playground. He wanted to ask somebody about it. What did that mean about the smugging in the square? Why did the five fellows out of the higher line run away for that? I . . . | 3.9284474849700928 |
| In Prose: Nausicaa, James Joyce But just then there was a slight altercation between Master Tommy and Master Jacky. Boys will be boys and our two twins were no exception to this golden rule. The apple of discord was a certain castle of sand which Master Jacky had built and Master . . . | 3.9265894889831543 |
| In Prose: Part Three, Ford Madox Ford It was this letter of Mrs Ashburnham’s to Mrs Powys that had caused the letter from Colonel Powys to Colonel Ashburnham—a letter that was half-humorous, half longing. Mrs Ashburnham caused her husband to reply, with a letter a little more jo . . . | 3.2510244846343994 |
| In Prose: Penelope, James Joyce no thats no way for him has he no manners nor no refinement nor no nothing in his nature slapping us behind like that on my bottom because I didnt call him Hugh the ignoramus that doesnt know poetry from a cabbage thats what you get for not keeping . . . | 0.5830045342445374 |
| In Prose: Penelope, James Joyce that was a relief wherever you be let your wind go free who knows if that pork chop I took with my cup of tea after was quite good with the heat I couldnt smell anything off it Im sure that queerlooking man in the porkbutchers is a great rogue I hop . . . | 0.5796146988868713 |