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via floppykat


Note to self…



Andrew Wyeth, Winter, 1946
Tempera on board
31 3/8 x 48 in (79.7 x 121.9 cm)
North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh

…and the future historian of the web-based human communication: I consciously entered the 2.0 era of  absorbing information when I realized I could no longer stand reading a piece of text [be it a Guardian opinion column or a Pitchfork review] without scrolling down the page looking for disagreeing comments. And when these are missing, I would spend hours googling the article title only to find opposing views expressed in forums or blogs or some other remote corner of the web.

[I still despise wikis though.]

Gumbril looked through the railings at the profound darkness of the park. Vast it was and melancholy, of a string, here and there, of receding lights.


‘Terrible’, he said, and repeated the word several times.

‘Terrible, terrible’.

All the legless soldiers grinding barell-organs, all the hawkers of toys stamping their leaky boots in the gutters of the Strand; at the corner of Cursitor Street and Chancery Lane, the old woman with matches, for ever holding to her left eye a handkertchief as yellow and dirty as the winter fog. What was wrong with her eye?

He had never dared to look, but hurried past as though she were not there, or sometimes, when the fog was more than ordinarily cold and stifling paused for an instant with averted eyes to drop a brown coin into her tray of matches.


And then there were the murderers at eight o’clock, while one was savouring, almost with voluptuous consciousness, the final dream-haunted doze. There was the phthisical chairwoman who used to work at his father’s house, until she got too weak and died. There were the lovers who turned on the gas and the ruined shopkeepers jumping in front of trains.

Had one a right to be contented and well-fed, had one a right to one’s education and good taste, a right to knowledge and conversation and the leisurely complexities of love?

He looked once more through the railings at the park’s impenetrable, rustic night, at the lines of beaded lamps. He looked and remembered another night, years ago, during the war, when there were no lights in the park and the electric moons above the roadway were in almost total eclipse. He had walked up this street alone, full of melancholy emotions […].

He had been most horribly in love.


‘What did you think,’ he asked abruptly, ‘of Myra Viveash?’

[bus reading] : Aldous Huxley : Antic Hay