Oh dear, Hitchens really builds up a head of steam in this one. It starts out tame in the first part (above), but by the end he’s asking for a direct apology from the man on stage for being complicit in the deaths of millions by AIDS in Africa, and calling the clergy “a clutch of hysterical, cynical virgins.”
Out in the street it seemed to Rieux that the night was full of whispers. Somewhere in the black depths above the street-lamps there was a low soughing that brought to his mind that unseen flail threshing incessantly the languid air of which Paneloux had spoken.
Ignota navitas
Occulta Mors
“People like Passaro, of course, tend to think that anyone indifferent to the latest "smart” authors must be vegetating in front of the television, or at best silently mouthing through a Tom Clancy thriller. The truth is that a lot of us are perfectly happy with literature written before we were born—and why shouldn’t we be? The notion that contemporary fiction possesses greater relevance for us because it talks of the Internet or supermodels or familiar brand names is ridiculous. We can see ourselves reflected more clearly in Balzac’s Parisians than in a modern American who goes into raptures when his daughter says ‘Toyota Celica’ in her sleep. This is not to say that traditional realism is the only valid approach to fiction. But today’s Serious Writers fail even on their own postmodern terms. They urge us to move beyond our old-fashioned preoccupation with content and plot, to focus on form instead—and then they subject us to the least-expressive form, the least-expressive sentences, in the history of the American novel.“
Absolutely.
The Lovely Feathers – “Photo Corners”
Hind Hind Legs
Got a new love for this album over the weekend, having usually turned it off after “Wrong Choice” for no particular reason and not getting a chance to love the later tracks. The half-major, half-minor singalong feel of this song is pretty unique to The Lovely Feathers. It’s like the best possible cross between the Libertines’ Up the Bracket and The Unicorns.
…he now all at once, while he rode, encased himself, body and soul, in the iron creed of the fatalist; and connecting destiny in his mind with the inferred will of God, defied any missile to touch him, unless it should come with the warrant of a providential and foregone decree.
C’est magnifique — mais ce n’est pas le guerre.
