Skating, Ruth flew and, flying, she was free.
—John Updike, Marry Me, 1976
To dine, drink champagne, make a racket, and deliver speeches about national consciousness, the conscience of the people, freedom, and such things, while slaves in tailcoats are running round your tables, veritable serfs, and your coachmen wait outside in the street, in the bitter cold—that is lying to the Holy Ghost.
—Anton Chekhov, notebook entry, February 19, 1897 (tr. by S. S. Koteliansky and Leonard Woolf )
Francis, perhaps, who lay in sister snow
Before the wealthy gate Freezing and praising, might have seen in this
No trifle, but a shade of bliss—That land of tolerable flowers, that state
As near and far as grass Where eyes become the sunlight, and the hand
Is worthy of…