Wednesday 30 November 2011
JOYCE,J,-from, A Portrait Of The Artist, As, A,Young Man.
Nothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it
stopped before the nothing place began?
It could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all
round everything. It was very big to think about everything and
everywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big
thought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's
name just as his name was Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that
was God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then
God knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But,
though there were different names for God in all the different
languages in the world and God understood what all the people who
prayed said in their different languages, still God remained always the
same God and God's real name was God.
It made him very tired to think that way. It made him feel his head
very big. He turned over the flyleaf and looked wearily at the green
round earth in the middle of the maroon clouds. He wondered which was
right, to be for the green or for the maroon, because Dante had ripped
the green velvet back off the brush that was for Parnell one day with
her scissors and had told him that Parnell was a bad man. He wondered
if they were arguing at home about that. That was called politics.
There were two sides in it: Dante was on one side and his father and Mr
Casey were on the other side but his mother and uncle Charles were on
no side. Every day there was something in the paper about it.
It pained him that he did not know well what politics meant and that he
did not know where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When
would he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big
voices and big boots and they studied trigonometry.
Friday 25 November 2011
From, George Orwell, 'Animal Farm'.
[Ch v]
In January there came bitterly hard weather. The earth was like iron, and
nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big
barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the
coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were
manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of
farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote.
This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the
disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point
where disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger
acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of
oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right
for cabbages, the other would declare that it was useless for anything
except roots. Each had his own following, and there were some violent
debates. At the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by his
brilliant speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for
himself in between times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of
late the sheep had taken to bleating "Four legs good, two legs bad" both
in and out of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It
was noticed that they were especially liable to break into "Four legs
good, two legs bad" at crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball
had made a close study of some back numbers of the 'Farmer and
Stockbreeder' which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans
for innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains,
silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all
the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot
every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of
his own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and
seemed to be biding his time. But of all their controversies, none was so
bitter as the one that took place over the windmill.
In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small
knoll which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground,
Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill, which could
be made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with electrical power.
This would light the stalls and warm them in winter, and would also run a
circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking
machine. The animals had never heard of anything of this kind before
(for the farm was an old-fashioned one and had only the most primitive
machinery), and they listened in astonishment while Snowball conjured up
pictures of fantastic machines which would do their work for them while
they grazed at their ease in the fields or improved their minds with
reading and conversation.
Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked
out. The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had
belonged to Mr. Jones--'One Thousand Useful Things to Do About the House',
'Every Man His Own Bricklayer', and 'Electricity for Beginners'. Snowball
used as his study a shed which had once been used for incubators and had a
smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for
hours at a time. With his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of
chalk gripped between the knuckles of his trotter, he would move rapidly
to and fro, drawing in line after line and uttering little whimpers of
excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a complicated mass of cranks and
cog-wheels, covering more than half the floor, which the other animals
found completely unintelligible but very impressive. All of them came to
look at Snowball's drawings at least once a day. Even the hens and ducks
came, and were at pains not to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon
held aloof. He had declared himself against the windmill from the start.
One day, however, he arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked
heavily round the shed, looked closely at every detail of the plans and
snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a little while contemplating
them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg,
urinated over the plans, and walked out without uttering a word.
[all transcripts in this Blog, are taken from;www.george-orwell.org]
nothing could be done in the fields. Many meetings were held in the big
barn, and the pigs occupied themselves with planning out the work of the
coming season. It had come to be accepted that the pigs, who were
manifestly cleverer than the other animals, should decide all questions of
farm policy, though their decisions had to be ratified by a majority vote.
This arrangement would have worked well enough if it had not been for the
disputes between Snowball and Napoleon. These two disagreed at every point
where disagreement was possible. If one of them suggested sowing a bigger
acreage with barley, the other was certain to demand a bigger acreage of
oats, and if one of them said that such and such a field was just right
for cabbages, the other would declare that it was useless for anything
except roots. Each had his own following, and there were some violent
debates. At the Meetings Snowball often won over the majority by his
brilliant speeches, but Napoleon was better at canvassing support for
himself in between times. He was especially successful with the sheep. Of
late the sheep had taken to bleating "Four legs good, two legs bad" both
in and out of season, and they often interrupted the Meeting with this. It
was noticed that they were especially liable to break into "Four legs
good, two legs bad" at crucial moments in Snowball's speeches. Snowball
had made a close study of some back numbers of the 'Farmer and
Stockbreeder' which he had found in the farmhouse, and was full of plans
for innovations and improvements. He talked learnedly about field drains,
silage, and basic slag, and had worked out a complicated scheme for all
the animals to drop their dung directly in the fields, at a different spot
every day, to save the labour of cartage. Napoleon produced no schemes of
his own, but said quietly that Snowball's would come to nothing, and
seemed to be biding his time. But of all their controversies, none was so
bitter as the one that took place over the windmill.
In the long pasture, not far from the farm buildings, there was a small
knoll which was the highest point on the farm. After surveying the ground,
Snowball declared that this was just the place for a windmill, which could
be made to operate a dynamo and supply the farm with electrical power.
This would light the stalls and warm them in winter, and would also run a
circular saw, a chaff-cutter, a mangel-slicer, and an electric milking
machine. The animals had never heard of anything of this kind before
(for the farm was an old-fashioned one and had only the most primitive
machinery), and they listened in astonishment while Snowball conjured up
pictures of fantastic machines which would do their work for them while
they grazed at their ease in the fields or improved their minds with
reading and conversation.
Within a few weeks Snowball's plans for the windmill were fully worked
out. The mechanical details came mostly from three books which had
belonged to Mr. Jones--'One Thousand Useful Things to Do About the House',
'Every Man His Own Bricklayer', and 'Electricity for Beginners'. Snowball
used as his study a shed which had once been used for incubators and had a
smooth wooden floor, suitable for drawing on. He was closeted there for
hours at a time. With his books held open by a stone, and with a piece of
chalk gripped between the knuckles of his trotter, he would move rapidly
to and fro, drawing in line after line and uttering little whimpers of
excitement. Gradually the plans grew into a complicated mass of cranks and
cog-wheels, covering more than half the floor, which the other animals
found completely unintelligible but very impressive. All of them came to
look at Snowball's drawings at least once a day. Even the hens and ducks
came, and were at pains not to tread on the chalk marks. Only Napoleon
held aloof. He had declared himself against the windmill from the start.
One day, however, he arrived unexpectedly to examine the plans. He walked
heavily round the shed, looked closely at every detail of the plans and
snuffed at them once or twice, then stood for a little while contemplating
them out of the corner of his eye; then suddenly he lifted his leg,
urinated over the plans, and walked out without uttering a word.
[all transcripts in this Blog, are taken from;www.george-orwell.org]
Thursday 24 November 2011
From, George Orwell, 'Down and Out, in London and Paris',
[Ch xii]
It was amusing to look round the filthy little scullery and think that
only a double door was between us and the dining-room. There sat the
customers in all their splendour--spotless table-cloths, bowls of
flowers, mirrors and gilt cornices and painted cherubim; and here, just a
few feet away, we in our disgusting filth. For it really was disgusting
filth. There was no time to sweep the floor till evening, and we slithered
about in a compound of soapy water, lettuce-leaves, torn paper and trampled
food. A dozen waiters with their coats off, showing their sweaty armpits,
sat at the table mixing salads and sticking their thumbs into the cream
pots. The room had a dirty, mixed smell of food and sweat. Everywhere in
the cupboards, behind the piles of crockery, were squalid stores of food
that the waiters had stolen. There were only two sinks, and no washing
basin, and it was nothing unusual for a waiter to wash his face in the
water in which clean crockery was rinsing. But the customers saw nothing of
this. There were a coco-nut mat and a mirror outside the dining-room door,
and the waiters used to preen themselves up and go in looking the picture
of cleanliness.
It is an instructive sight to see a waiter going into a hotel
dining-room. As he passes the door a sudden change comes over him. The set
of his shoulders alters; all the dirt and hurry and irritation have dropped
off in an instant. He glides over the carpet, with a solemn priest-like
air. I remember our assistant MAITRE D'HOTEL, a fiery Italian, pausing at
the dining-room door to address an apprentice who had broken a bottle of
wine. Shaking his fist above his head he yelled (luckily the door was more
or less soundproof):
'TU ME FAIS--Do you call yourself a waiter, you young bastard? You a
waiter! You're not fit to scrub floors in the brothel your mother came
from. MAQUEREAU!'
Words failing him, he turned to the door; and as he opened it he
delivered a final insult in the same manner as Squire Western in TOM JONES.
Then he entered the dining-room and sailed across it dish in hand,
graceful as a swan. Ten seconds later he was bowing reverently to a
customer. And you could not help thinking, as you saw him bow and smile,
with that benign smile of the trained waiter, that the customer was put to
shame by having such an aristocrat to serve him.
This washing up was a thoroughly odious job--not hard, but boring
and silly beyond words. It is dreadful to think that some people spend
their whole decades at such occupations. The woman whom I replaced was
quite sixty years old, and she stood at the sink thirteen hours a day, six
days a week, the year round; she was, in addition, horribly bullied by the
waiters. She gave out that she had once been an actress--actually, I
imagine, a prostitute; most prostitutes end as charwomen. It was strange to
see that in spite of her age and her life she still wore a bright blonde
wig, and darkened her eyes and painted her face like a girl of twenty. So
apparently even a seventy-eight-hour week can leave one with some vitality.
only a double door was between us and the dining-room. There sat the
customers in all their splendour--spotless table-cloths, bowls of
flowers, mirrors and gilt cornices and painted cherubim; and here, just a
few feet away, we in our disgusting filth. For it really was disgusting
filth. There was no time to sweep the floor till evening, and we slithered
about in a compound of soapy water, lettuce-leaves, torn paper and trampled
food. A dozen waiters with their coats off, showing their sweaty armpits,
sat at the table mixing salads and sticking their thumbs into the cream
pots. The room had a dirty, mixed smell of food and sweat. Everywhere in
the cupboards, behind the piles of crockery, were squalid stores of food
that the waiters had stolen. There were only two sinks, and no washing
basin, and it was nothing unusual for a waiter to wash his face in the
water in which clean crockery was rinsing. But the customers saw nothing of
this. There were a coco-nut mat and a mirror outside the dining-room door,
and the waiters used to preen themselves up and go in looking the picture
of cleanliness.
It is an instructive sight to see a waiter going into a hotel
dining-room. As he passes the door a sudden change comes over him. The set
of his shoulders alters; all the dirt and hurry and irritation have dropped
off in an instant. He glides over the carpet, with a solemn priest-like
air. I remember our assistant MAITRE D'HOTEL, a fiery Italian, pausing at
the dining-room door to address an apprentice who had broken a bottle of
wine. Shaking his fist above his head he yelled (luckily the door was more
or less soundproof):
'TU ME FAIS--Do you call yourself a waiter, you young bastard? You a
waiter! You're not fit to scrub floors in the brothel your mother came
from. MAQUEREAU!'
Words failing him, he turned to the door; and as he opened it he
delivered a final insult in the same manner as Squire Western in TOM JONES.
Then he entered the dining-room and sailed across it dish in hand,
graceful as a swan. Ten seconds later he was bowing reverently to a
customer. And you could not help thinking, as you saw him bow and smile,
with that benign smile of the trained waiter, that the customer was put to
shame by having such an aristocrat to serve him.
This washing up was a thoroughly odious job--not hard, but boring
and silly beyond words. It is dreadful to think that some people spend
their whole decades at such occupations. The woman whom I replaced was
quite sixty years old, and she stood at the sink thirteen hours a day, six
days a week, the year round; she was, in addition, horribly bullied by the
waiters. She gave out that she had once been an actress--actually, I
imagine, a prostitute; most prostitutes end as charwomen. It was strange to
see that in spite of her age and her life she still wore a bright blonde
wig, and darkened her eyes and painted her face like a girl of twenty. So
apparently even a seventy-eight-hour week can leave one with some vitality.
Wednesday 23 November 2011
From, George Orwell, 'Homage to Catalonia'.
This was in late December 1936, less than seven months ago as I write, and
yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events
have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or
1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper
articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time
and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The
Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was
still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it
probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was
ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was
something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been
in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building
of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with
the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the
hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost
every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were
being systematically demolished by gangs of workmen. Every shop and cafe had an
inscription saying that it had been collectivized; even the bootblacks had been
collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers
looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial
forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said 'Senior' or 'Don' or
even 'Usted'; everyone called everyone else 'Comrade' and 'Thou', and said
'Salud!' instead of 'Buenos dias'. Tipping was forbidden by law; almost my first
experience was receiving a lecture from a hotel manager for trying to tip a
lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and
all the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and
black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in
clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs
of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of
people streamed constantly to and fro, the loudspeakers were bellowing
revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the
crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town
in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no 'well-dressed' people at all.
Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls, or some
variant of the militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in
it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I
recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers'
State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed, or
voluntarily come over to the workers' side; I did not realize that great numbers
of well-to-do bourgeois were simply lying low and disguising themselves as
proletarians for the time being.
Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The
town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings were in poor repair, the
streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air--raids, the shops were mostly
shabby and half-empty. Meat was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there
was a shortage of coal, sugar, and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long.
Yet so far as one could judge the people were contented and hopeful. There was
no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very
few conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gipsies. Above
all, there was a belief in the revolution and the future, a feeling of having
suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying
to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the
barbers' shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly Anarchists)
solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were
coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone
from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English--speaking races there
was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic
Spaniards took the hackneyed phrases of revolution. At that time revolutionary
ballads of the naivest kind, all about proletarian brotherhood and the
wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each.
I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously
spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it
to an appropriate tune.
yet it is a period that has already receded into enormous distance. Later events
have obliterated it much more completely than they have obliterated 1935, or
1905, for that matter. I had come to Spain with some notion of writing newspaper
articles, but I had joined the militia almost immediately, because at that time
and in that atmosphere it seemed the only conceivable thing to do. The
Anarchists were still in virtual control of Catalonia and the revolution was
still in full swing. To anyone who had been there since the beginning it
probably seemed even in December or January that the revolutionary period was
ending; but when one came straight from England the aspect of Barcelona was
something startling and overwhelming. It was the first time that I had ever been
in a town where the working class was in the saddle. Practically every building
of any size had been seized by the workers and was draped with red flags or with
the red and black flag of the Anarchists; every wall was scrawled with the
hammer and sickle and with the initials of the revolutionary parties; almost
every church had been gutted and its images burnt. Churches here and there were
being systematically demolished by gangs of workmen. Every shop and cafe had an
inscription saying that it had been collectivized; even the bootblacks had been
collectivized and their boxes painted red and black. Waiters and shop-walkers
looked you in the face and treated you as an equal. Servile and even ceremonial
forms of speech had temporarily disappeared. Nobody said 'Senior' or 'Don' or
even 'Usted'; everyone called everyone else 'Comrade' and 'Thou', and said
'Salud!' instead of 'Buenos dias'. Tipping was forbidden by law; almost my first
experience was receiving a lecture from a hotel manager for trying to tip a
lift-boy. There were no private motor-cars, they had all been commandeered, and
all the trams and taxis and much of the other transport were painted red and
black. The revolutionary posters were everywhere, flaming from the walls in
clean reds and blues that made the few remaining advertisements look like daubs
of mud. Down the Ramblas, the wide central artery of the town where crowds of
people streamed constantly to and fro, the loudspeakers were bellowing
revolutionary songs all day and far into the night. And it was the aspect of the
crowds that was the queerest thing of all. In outward appearance it was a town
in which the wealthy classes had practically ceased to exist. Except for a small
number of women and foreigners there were no 'well-dressed' people at all.
Practically everyone wore rough working-class clothes, or blue overalls, or some
variant of the militia uniform. All this was queer and moving. There was much in
it that I did not understand, in some ways I did not even like it, but I
recognized it immediately as a state of affairs worth fighting for. Also I
believed that things were as they appeared, that this was really a workers'
State and that the entire bourgeoisie had either fled, been killed, or
voluntarily come over to the workers' side; I did not realize that great numbers
of well-to-do bourgeois were simply lying low and disguising themselves as
proletarians for the time being.
Together with all this there was something of the evil atmosphere of war. The
town had a gaunt untidy look, roads and buildings were in poor repair, the
streets at night were dimly lit for fear of air--raids, the shops were mostly
shabby and half-empty. Meat was scarce and milk practically unobtainable, there
was a shortage of coal, sugar, and petrol, and a really serious shortage of
bread. Even at this period the bread-queues were often hundreds of yards long.
Yet so far as one could judge the people were contented and hopeful. There was
no unemployment, and the price of living was still extremely low; you saw very
few conspicuously destitute people, and no beggars except the gipsies. Above
all, there was a belief in the revolution and the future, a feeling of having
suddenly emerged into an era of equality and freedom. Human beings were trying
to behave as human beings and not as cogs in the capitalist machine. In the
barbers' shops were Anarchist notices (the barbers were mostly Anarchists)
solemnly explaining that barbers were no longer slaves. In the streets were
coloured posters appealing to prostitutes to stop being prostitutes. To anyone
from the hard-boiled, sneering civilization of the English--speaking races there
was something rather pathetic in the literalness with which these idealistic
Spaniards took the hackneyed phrases of revolution. At that time revolutionary
ballads of the naivest kind, all about proletarian brotherhood and the
wickedness of Mussolini, were being sold on the streets for a few centimes each.
I have often seen an illiterate militiaman buy one of these ballads, laboriously
spell out the words, and then, when he had got the hang of it, begin singing it
to an appropriate tune.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
COMPARE; END CHAPTER.....
In the end we crossed the frontier without incident. The train had a first
class and a dining-car, the first I had seen in Spain. Until recently there had
been only one class on the trains in Catalonia. Two detectives came round the
train taking the names of foreigners, but when they saw us in the dining-car
they seemed satisfied that we were respectable. It was queer how everything had
changed. Only six months ago, when the Anarchists still reigned, it was looking
like a proletarian that made you respectable. On the way down from Perpignan to
Cerberes a French commercial traveller in my carriage had said to me in all
solemnity: 'You mustn't go into Spain looking like that. Take off that collar
and tie. They'll tear them off you in Barcelona.' He was exaggerating, but it
showed how Catalonia was regarded. And at the frontier the Anarchist guards had
turned back a smartly dressed Frenchman and his wife, solely--I think--because
they looked too bourgeois. Now it was the other way about; to look bourgeois was
the one salvation. At the passport office they looked us up in the card--index
of suspects, but thanks to the inefficiency of the police our names were not
listed, not even McNair's. We were searched from head to foot, but we possessed
nothing incriminating, except my discharge--papers, and the carabineros who
searched me did not know that the 29th Division was the P.O.U.M. So we slipped
through the barrier, and after just six months I was on French soil again. My
only souvenirs of Spain were a goatskin water-bottle and one of those tiny iron
lamps in which the Aragon peasants bum olive oil--lamps almost exactly the
shape of the terra-cotta lamps that the Romans used two thousand years ago--
which I had picked up in some ruined hut, and which had somehow got stuck in my
luggage.
class and a dining-car, the first I had seen in Spain. Until recently there had
been only one class on the trains in Catalonia. Two detectives came round the
train taking the names of foreigners, but when they saw us in the dining-car
they seemed satisfied that we were respectable. It was queer how everything had
changed. Only six months ago, when the Anarchists still reigned, it was looking
like a proletarian that made you respectable. On the way down from Perpignan to
Cerberes a French commercial traveller in my carriage had said to me in all
solemnity: 'You mustn't go into Spain looking like that. Take off that collar
and tie. They'll tear them off you in Barcelona.' He was exaggerating, but it
showed how Catalonia was regarded. And at the frontier the Anarchist guards had
turned back a smartly dressed Frenchman and his wife, solely--I think--because
they looked too bourgeois. Now it was the other way about; to look bourgeois was
the one salvation. At the passport office they looked us up in the card--index
of suspects, but thanks to the inefficiency of the police our names were not
listed, not even McNair's. We were searched from head to foot, but we possessed
nothing incriminating, except my discharge--papers, and the carabineros who
searched me did not know that the 29th Division was the P.O.U.M. So we slipped
through the barrier, and after just six months I was on French soil again. My
only souvenirs of Spain were a goatskin water-bottle and one of those tiny iron
lamps in which the Aragon peasants bum olive oil--lamps almost exactly the
shape of the terra-cotta lamps that the Romans used two thousand years ago--
which I had picked up in some ruined hut, and which had somehow got stuck in my
luggage.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Interestingly, Herman Melville,
'The Confidence Man'......
CHAPTER XLV.
the cosmopolitan increases in seriousness.
In the middle of the gentlemen's cabin burned a solar lamp, swung from the ceiling, and whose shade of ground glass was all round fancifully variegated, in transparency, with the image of a horned altar, from which flames rose, alternate with the figure of a robed man, his head encircled by a halo. The light of this lamp, after dazzlingly striking on marble, snow-white and round—the slab of a centre-table beneath—on all sides went rippling off with ever-diminishing distinctness, till, like circles from a stone dropped in water, the rays died dimly away in the furthest nook of the place.
Here and there, true to their place, but not to their function, swung other lamps, barren planets, which had either gone out from exhaustion, or been extinguished by such occupants of berths as the light annoyed, or who wanted to sleep, not see.
[wikisource.org]
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Old Lamps? for New? hahahaha!
Tuesday 22 November 2011
Sunday 20 November 2011
Bullit -- On the Road Again -- Canned Heat -- Car Chase
,
Seriously! The Best,- Ever, Movie, Car Chase!
This , is,
Awesome!!!, the Guy ,who, put, this music, to, this Scene? -Genius!
RIP... Steve!McQ!.......You were..... THE BEST!
Seriously! The Best,- Ever, Movie, Car Chase!
This , is,
Awesome!!!, the Guy ,who, put, this music, to, this Scene? -Genius!
RIP... Steve!McQ!.......You were..... THE BEST!
Wednesday 16 November 2011
The Sun and The Rain
It's raining again,
I'm hearing it's pitter patter down.
It's wet in the street
Reflecting the lights and splashing feet,
Nowhere to go,
And nothing I have to do, have to do.
It's raining again,
I follow the Christmas lights down town.
I'm leaving the flow
Of people walking all around,
Round and round,
I hear the sound of rain falling in my ears
Washing away the weariness like tears.
I can feel my troubles running down,
Disappear into the silent sound.
Just walking along,
My clothes are soaked right through to the skin,
I haven't a doubt, that this is what life is all about,
The sun and the rain.
Scraps of paper(???) washing down the drain.
I feel the rain falling on my face
I can say there is no better place
Than standing up in the falling down
In so much rain I could almost drown.
It's raining again
A crack in the clouds reveals blue skies
I've been feeling so low(low)
But now everything is on my side
The sun and the rain.
Walk with me fill my heart again
I hear the rain falling in my ears
Washing away the weariness like tears.
I can feel my troubles running down,
Disappear into the silent sound.
I feel the rain falling on my face
I can say there is no better place
Than standing up in the falling down
In so much rain I could almost drown.
Do de do do de do do do
Do de do de do de do do do
...
> 'The Sun And The Rain' (1983) taken from the LP 'Utter Madness' (1986)
I'm hearing it's pitter patter down.
It's wet in the street
Reflecting the lights and splashing feet,
Nowhere to go,
And nothing I have to do, have to do.
It's raining again,
I follow the Christmas lights down town.
I'm leaving the flow
Of people walking all around,
Round and round,
I hear the sound of rain falling in my ears
Washing away the weariness like tears.
I can feel my troubles running down,
Disappear into the silent sound.
Just walking along,
My clothes are soaked right through to the skin,
I haven't a doubt, that this is what life is all about,
The sun and the rain.
Scraps of paper(???) washing down the drain.
I feel the rain falling on my face
I can say there is no better place
Than standing up in the falling down
In so much rain I could almost drown.
It's raining again
A crack in the clouds reveals blue skies
I've been feeling so low(low)
But now everything is on my side
The sun and the rain.
Walk with me fill my heart again
I hear the rain falling in my ears
Washing away the weariness like tears.
I can feel my troubles running down,
Disappear into the silent sound.
I feel the rain falling on my face
I can say there is no better place
Than standing up in the falling down
In so much rain I could almost drown.
Do de do do de do do do
Do de do de do de do do do
...
> 'The Sun And The Rain' (1983) taken from the LP 'Utter Madness' (1986)
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If I had my life to live over, I'd try to make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I ...