Varia 31 August 2013

Little red berries on the tree.

‘Just in my life’ – is the just (‘de justesse’).

Relief on reading Beckett! Creatures of my own kind!

Great cycle rides of my life (even if at the time I was feeling deeply unhappy, bored, tired). Mainly in France. With D.D., and the petite bande. With N.-K., in Normandy. Solus, in Burgundy.

A reference by B.D. to the Plaza de la Virgen in Valencia. The Blessed Virgin. Sudden longing. Why not? 

Torcello. Holiday romance: but holy day.

‘This is just like in a film!’ – A frequent feeling. – Why represent it? How represent it? (In a FILM?)

‘Another surviving Elizabethan tree is displayed in the library. The family tree or pedigree of Queen Elizabeth I dates from 1559. It is richly illuminated and gilded, decorated with coats of arms and heraldic devices. It is a remarkable parchment roll, 22 yards long, tracing Elizabeth’s ancestry back to Adam and Eve. Some of the Queen’s ancestors who appear here are King Arthur, King Lear, Julius Caesar, Romulus and Remus, Hector and Noah.’ (Hatfield House.)

He has the doodle bug.

Imagine Heideggerean as a popular dialect. (A kind of German Rabelaisian?)

Casanova’s translation of the Iliad into Venetian.

The superstition of (that is) the other.

Life is too short for long faces.

Comparaison n’est pas raison. – BUT compare translations and you open worlds.  

The Tingueley machine is at its most splendid as it self-destructs.

My illness was deaf. It tied me to the mast and rowed me past the collected works of Maurice Blanchot. I cried out to be landed on the island, but my illness could not hear.

The Dark – in James Herbert. (Note that he attended a Catholic School in Bethnal Green.) The Dark is all the negativity in me and without. Critique. But: ‘The living people who gave themselves up to the Dark could be controlled, killed, but the killing itself allowed their energy to become stronger.’

Creation too was always a matter of scissors and paste.

Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt. – I ‘heart’ world? I ‘like’ world? I ‘friend’ world? But even Jesus had his special friends. (I am uneasy about MacC. on friendship with God.)

The gîte in Alsace: poems of Ronsard, thoughs of the empty room in Mallarmé. Something melancholy, sequestered, as so often in the French provinces.

Draw on the past – yours, theirs – for energy, not depletion. Gently dismiss the ‘bad’ images.

Books I read before QM. ‘The room started to go round and round and burst into flames.’ There was a wonderful dudelsack of a monster in it.

Beautiful pieces played by Gilels: ‘Lyric Pieces’ by Grieg.

Mirrors: get an assembly of them, make a mobile.

Poems – they are all good – why put them into order? Why prefer? Or rather: on your preferences to base nothing (that would be an overgeneralization). I am the anti-Leavis: or rather, I find life where he does not.

Evil must self-destruct? (The Nazis, the Daleks… turn against themselves. Satan in Dante? The Dark in The Dark.)

A sudden flicker of remembrance of THOR and the other Marvel comics. I cannot get it back and would not want to: here it is: the hero stands on the edge of the gigantic space ship, against a backdrop of stars and planets: he speaks of ‘THE HALCYON DAYS OF YORE’. Also something Egyptian, mythological: the essay I wrote aet. 11 (and read out to M. while she was cleaning the windows in the Front Room), a mythological fantasia on the coming of night – the constellations all alive, the Crab reaching out with its claws. Something Ovidian, no?

At E. Coll. – yet again – I haven’t been going in for my Wednesday teaching session – not for weeks. Should I pretend that I’ve been ill? Also, I need to mug up for ‘A’-level. And German prose. So I go to the UL. The mediaevalist K. H., now distant from me, is there – I have to ask her if she will look after F.L. (S.’s friend) for me. I’d e-mailed her about this: but she has a conference to go to. The computers are very distant – I can barely see. The ‘joke of the day’ is on show. But I am frustrated by the low visibility – and frankly shocked when I see some young girls smoking – and here, in the Library! Then I notice that many other people are smoking, too, in the vast hall – where several scientific experiments seem to be in progress.

Recently, a vast geography: Latin-American/Italian/Mediterranean. Vast sunshine, wings of planes.

The Dutch Mountains. The forests around this town. In those days… Forests, steppes and swamps. East: why not? Smoke rising from clearings.

Philosophy is not the present age captured in thought: philosophy is yesterday’s philosophy captured in thought.

Proust: but jealousy is a failure of the imagination too.

I am a mere page boy.

Mosaic – Seurat – Klee. Byzantium linked to impressionism and high modernism.

‘Why is there something rather than nothing?’ = ‘Why?’

Dull as dishwater. Have you ever really looked at dishwater? – Think of Pnin doing the washing up. (This morning, 14 December 2013, I drew a sketch of the washing up as it lay in the bowl: a cubist assemblage.)

Men: gonads without windows.

Herbst im Herzens Sommeruntergang. 

FW – found etymology (as they say: found object).

I’m just not up to Being.

Strangeness: be in places where you cannot judge.

If I were to try and express my sense of the mystical (‘hearing my daughter sing in San Marco’, for example) it would sound utterly banal. But that is the mystical! You want it to sound like Hegel?!

The mystical is for me alone – but it also means that there is no longer any me. (‘Vor dem Gesetz.’)

I cannot know what I believe in – in two senses. (If I believe in X, I cannot know X, and I cannot know what my belief of X really involves.)

So many books, plays, films that you barely remember: and so many of them are about the fragility of memory! (This thought gives you a sudden sense of relief.)

I like writing on a soft background (in a notebook, with a good 2B pencil. Or on the rubber cloth on the kitchen table.) Too much pounding on the keyboard has damaged my hands. – Handwriting is then like sketching.

Get away from the knowingness of PM.

PM, yes, the afternoon nap of thought.

Relics: GB’s merde as madeleine.

I am luxorius.

Mad Men versus Burroughs. No contest.

Language opens up to the world, of language. Not.#

Nature is tamed, will.

For the only objective thing is freedom. Subject: Scylla AND Charybdis.

Locate the conservative moments in JD and LW. (Are they perhaps the same?)

Citalopram was my drug of choice.

Imagination: the Zoroastrian mage in Tokyo.

Stanford, Symphony no. 5 ‘Symphonic Fantasia’ a lot of the music is much fresher than I had imagined. The finale doesn’t work.

Relive and rewrite – e.g. the loneliness of Saturday mornings in the École.

Yes, my problem with film: you can’t (in the cinema) stop it, freeze the frame, rewind, say ‘sorry, could you say that again?’

Pugin, Ruskin, Newman – the form that ‘revolution’ assumed among the English.

Translation as critique and demystification of original.

My Atlas – Cadaster – Domesday.

IT goes back to when I was very young. – Coming back home to P. St, discovering the gate was locked. I think I had got the date/time wrong for a service at St. Matthew’s. – M. was very cross. She’d had to rush all the way up the hill, all the way back… be there for K… she was probably working at the time, too. – I slumped against the locked gate, in tears. ('Vor dem Gesetz'.)

Refer every minute to the eternal thing.

The Walkers Along H. Road.

Bagatelles.

I was doing more teaching – supervisions – at K. Coll. – in K. Lane. The college had given me a room there: tall, lighted, Londonesque. In K. Lane I discuss the question of ‘fat nails’ – what is the medical term for this? – I try ‘pinguis’ but an intelligent male student says ‘pinguis’ means ‘fat’, ‘oily’. I’m impressed and say I need to look this up. There are attractive women students too, and I end up living in a student community. I can banter with them, in a human way. [Maybe humanity would be fully deployed, realized, after death? – Kafka.] Slight warm eros for the women. They have put my chest of drawers behind a bed, where I need to gain access to it.

Klemperer’s Bruckner’s 6^th is abominable – slow and flaccid. Marcus Bosch is better! 

Varia 27 August 2013

What has been ‘extreme’ in my life (so far)? – Why do I have a minor obsession with the ‘cutting edge’? Extremity and solitude. My experiments with razor blades, 1999. ‘Self-harming.’

A young Asian woman has just shot by on a strange V-shaped scooter (the platform on which she stands consists of two boards which join at the prow). She is intent and looks a little worried. She is wearing a sun hat and shades, and carries a small light green hand-bag. It is 8:40.

Grey skies, 13e arrondissement, language school Inlingua.

This summer, Straits: Hormuz, Taiwan.

Trying to read Le Chiendent in Milan station, late at night. – Lille. – F.Q., the young woman I had met teaching.  – Her freshness. Her cool, clear handwriting. The postcards of Paris she sent to console me for my ‘exil’. 

Eduard van Beinum, Haffner Symphony – blisteringly intense! His Debussy Nocturnes too.

Varia 26 August 2013

Dream: I was in, for example, D., occupied by, for instance, the Nazis, and we were being taken out daily to be executed. My turn was to be the following day. I had been resigned to my mortality: but now, somewhere near the M. Z. shopping centre, I started to feel rebellious. I would do my best to escape, rather than submit. I would head north. I would hide in bogs and sewers. Even an extra day of life was worth fighting for.

Can science ever be too pedantic? Or, say, finance? Or furniture building?

What I do is exactly what I need to do (and can do).

Top of the Lake. The pleasure of just seeing – New Zealand, for example. I am being given an edited version? Someone else’s? But when would this not be the case? I know, I know, there are differences, there is nothing but differences.

Glazunov Symphony 4 cond. Mravinsky. More by the Leningrad Symphony Orchestra. 

E.g. Vadim Salmanov, Symphony 2 – a sudden new world. In a recording: conditions of composition and of performance (e.g. the audience – the people you don’t hear, apart from coughs and applause – you hear their silence). (Later: the people are silent.)

The time we went to Erasmus’s church. – Back to illud tempus. – Visions of vast brick churches in the lowlands of Europe. – 1666. - What did 1666 gather? In terms of dread and knowledge and vague but intense longing.

Music – metaphor: Debussy’s ‘Waves’ could be a dance of the fairies, or a walk in a windy day, or young love, or (the woodwind is sometimes oriental) a scene from Japanese feudal history. Ainigma. – Seeing as, and hearing as. (Kandinsky.) The wind versus waves: some skirmish in the fields of Lombardy. (Verdi.)

Blue – girl with blue skirt has just gone by – very blue, like the robe of the Madonna in some Paolo della Francesca – so Italian art is essentially a way of keeping cool in a hot climate. (Not an echo: a complement.)

In heaven, would they have memories of heaven? (‘Do you remember that… day?... when we… did what, exactly?) ‘Of course not! There is no time!’

Toscanini’s Debussy is outstanding. - His Haffner symphony is boring (as it is under most conductors) until the silverfire of the finale.

Cortot’s Debussy – not good, too stolid. Debussy plays Debussy (piano rolls?) – outstanding.

Varia 24 August 2013

Lives of film directors are always boring. Partial exceptions: Welles, maybe Kubrick – those who were somehow more than directors. The gung-ho razzmatazz types are the most boring: all guns, jungles, and dollars.

Extraordinary excitement of finale of Tchaikovksy’s ‘Winter Dreams’ esp. recording in the Mercury Living Presence ***** series (Dorati, LSO).

Faust is damned from the start. (On listening to Berlioz’s version: that melancholia cannot be ‘solved’.) – Seiji Ozawa’s recording is good, Stuart Burrows ‘Je souffre, je souffre’ – fugal section. Munch too – David Poleri, such pathos.

Varia 22 August 2013

Spontini’s operas sound very intriguing. But do they sound very intriguing?

After Suffolk: Grammar! Syntax!

Céline and Julie. My loneliness that year.

The Works That Have Counted In My Life.

Large swathes of Boulevard Solitude are pastiche Stravinsky (the chuffing woodwind, the wonky brass chorales, the circus buzz) – especially reminiscent of Pulcinella.

Force people to say something (about a book, a film, an essay, a building) and they will give a negative opinion.

The whole of history is skewed. Look for traces of the repressed and, in particular, of the feminine. (Can this appear only as a trace?)

Autumn texts, from when I taught: Apollinaire, Baudelaire. (Remember the quotation about it being a ‘révolution’, on the back of the GF edn – and the face of the woman on the front – aet. 18 this seemed to me to express the promise of perversity and secret desire).

What happens in a symphony? (E.g. Henze’s First?)

Google Earth: Pétaouchnok.

Varia 14 August 2013

Accurate scholarship IS the offence – or part of it. The Devil’s part.

As I walked out one summer’s morning… Those who got away.

Faust was in Parma – in the Busoni version. Which is so broody and amorphous that I cannot get through it. 

I am stranded at the Court of Parma.

Would it be possible to write a book about fakes which ignored the fact that they were fakes? Which fakes might have changed history? For irony is essentially the art of taking the false seriously.

(How this little idea brightens up my day! – Rather like the idea of the deliberate mistranslation: all that is po-faced.)

To imagine and to manage.

Varia 12 August 2013

12 August:

Richter/Kondrashin, Liszt’s 1^st piano: a blistering performance converts bluster into music.

Philosophy refreshes life, in all its aspects.

Celibidache Bach Mass: wonderful. The Scherchen too. He says a lovely Mass.

13 August:

Yesterday’s kerfuffle over the grey ghost text behind the translation in the art catalogue has made me realise that what I long for, deep down, is to be just a bit wicked. Mateyness with colleagues: they always smelled it a mile off. (The Uses of Literacy.) No more. - Also, seeing the obits made me realise that my name could never appear bathed in such a warm eulogistic glow. My initial envy was soon tempered by a mistrust of the writing that lies behind these memorialisings. And, this morning, a dislike of the celebratory subtext of the way some of the schools have deified writing. - I am tired of being good, because I am not. - I am anxious about everything, still. I will never not be anxious. Given this, I have nothing to lose. - No more ethics.

‘Reason’: the name given by Enlightenment to its prejudices.

It is a sunny morning. Online I saw some photos of Siena. There is a restless rustling in the leaves.

Reality is not rectitude. - The world alone is accurate and precise: human beings are a smear, a smudge.

Smile.

This procedure is dangerous (madness, hell).

The things for which I am (or was) usually praised make me shudder. (Or at least: rebel.)

The Poem of Ecstasy. Mine!

Turn of the century, again!

Learning language is essentially about freedom, not about rules. - All the world’s tongues.

Roussel, Symphony no. 4. A magical opening, then too much that is routine and noisy. (The fate of so much magic: Faust.)

Scriabin, however, despite the apparent formlessness…

Varia 9 August 2013

Last night, the prom, the Symphonie fantastique – just caught the last two movements (Maris Janssons): but here the French-German romantic autumn begins.

Taiwan: meanwhile, Dutilleux cello concerto (‘Tout un monde lointain’…: to continue the theme announced above).

Except that G-d alone determines the themes.

Der Freischütz – Heidegger. Schama on Tacitus and the forests.

Libretto for Der Freischütz. ‘Leise, leise’.

Harmony – diminished 7^th. 

Heidegger in his hut; night; outside, the forest trees are swaying uneasily. What enemy is prowling out there?

Lift up your eyes from the screen: the blue and the white are above.

Faust, Freischütz, Wagner etc.: the occluded problem of damnation. The woman is the saviour? Theological consequences of this? – Also, as in Faust, the idea of a contract with the devil that goes wrong (cf also Merchant of Venice) – goes wrong for the devil but due to devilish means (‘you didn’t know the devil was a logician’ in Dante).  

After Beethoven, noisy triumphant endings become the rule. Was this ever the case before? Why does music have to become struggle-and-triumph? The last bars are always working up to the climax of a ‘bravo!’ So much symphonic head-banging. Tension and release. Why not show something starting out well and gradually turning more and more tragic? This is surely unusual: much more common is the case of music that starts sadly, makes a few attempts at escape, and ends badly (Mozart’s 40h, Mahler’s 6^th, etc.).

I sometimes like contemporary music because you can hardly tell that it has ended (or why).

One jackdaw on this side of the road, another opposite: they are strutting down the road, pecking their way with a staccato systematicity along the grass verges. I had not noticed how blue their feathers can be as they catch the afternoon summer sunlight.

The ‘cornetto’ music from an ice cream van. (In W., I think the chimes were sometimes classical – a bit of Mozart, or the March of the Toreadors.)

The delights of the threads (a nice word – textual) in the online dictionary Leo. As adopted to philosophical texts, maybe? It also has a good Chinese-German dictionary.

‘Form squares!’ This is good advice for life.

Father’s silence in me.

Perfumes and transferences – my life.

World Wide Walt. Whitman? Disney?

I was glade.

The father (not mine) agonizes over his identity: the mother gets on with looking after the children.

My headmaster and Isaiah Berlin. - My headmaster lent me a little illustrated book on Buddha. (And a general study of philosophical problems, published by Routledge & Kegan Paul.) - The smell of the Board Room at school, near the Headmaster’s study: an overwhelming mixture of pipe smoke, mahogany, leather, and polish. The smell of culture. Here we had ‘special’ lessons (sometimes Latin, for some reason; later, Oxbridge ‘general essay’ lessons).

Impressions of ideas. I mean: an impressionism of ideas. (I don’t mean: ideas as impressions, in the sense perhaps of certain empiricists.)

Nietzsche’s sense of smell: man riecht die Verwesung.

Cat’s Carnival – a children’s picture book about Venice. (More Venetian than some learned tomes.)

The palm court of the soul.

Death in Venice – the most Proustian film. – They are all ghosts on the beach: this civilisation has outlived itself. – Tadzio’s smile: Angelos Thanatos: the true Hermes. – The use of the old Lowe-Porter translation (‘the terrible vibrios’) adds to the ceremoniousness. – Like Buñuel, there is hardly a scene in which he does not show the labouring classes that serve this elite. (Even in the lovely scene of Aschenbach, his wife and daughter playing on an Alpine hillside, there is a gardener tending the plot in the background.) – When I first saw this film, aet. 17 or 18, I longed to be Aschenbach, just as aet. 9 or 10 I had longed to be a chorister at King’s. – Recently, I was in Venice in a jacket and tie despite the midsummer heat: but I was wearing, not a homburg, or a fedora, or even a straw hat, but my safari hat.

Other deathly ceremonies: Boulez in IRCAM. - Musica(m) templum vult.

Happiness demands a transcription. 1976, MAO EST MORT. (I remember the funeral music.)

The fat man bathing his belly in the cemetery sun, recently. A can of beer on the bench beside him, his headphones plugged into his ears. Ni le soleil ni la mort.

The couples dancing in the Piazza San Marco.

“In the days when Indian restaurants served dishes of various hues of orange in flock wallpaper surroundings, one restaurant stood out...” 

London restaurants RIP: The Bullock Cart

In the days when Indian restaurants seemed to serve dishes of various hues of orange in a flock wallpaper surroundings there was one restaurant that provided high quality Indian cuisine in a sophisticated environment. This was the late, lamented Bullock Cart in Hampstead’s Heath Street. It was decorated in a tasteful turquoise colour with elegantly aged pictures of bullock carts and other aspects of Indian life. The service was always charming from waiters who had been there for some considerable time. I was a regular and was always treated well, often ending the meal on a complimentary liqueur. My particular favourite dishes were the lamb rogan josh with tomatoes, a mild, creamy prawn bhuna and a sag paneer with spinach and lumps of cheese in a buttery sauce. Delicious! The Bullock Cart was not state-of-the-art cuisine but did what it did extremely well. It was an unobtrusive star amongst the overpriced bistros and Pizzalands (remember that?) of late 70s Hampstead Village. It closed in the late 80s and is now a Thai restaurant. The estate agent next door used to be The Nag’s Head, another lost Hampstead boozer. Here, one dark autumn night in 1981, I dined with K., in a trance of garrulous and nervous jocularity (hers) and slow, edgy desire (mine) that concealed our growing PASSION. My inner desolation when she decided to go back to I.I. for the evening. What a steep hill it was thereabouts, with the haze of India and the burning ghats on the Ganges at Varanasi on the wall of my one-room flat in South London, torn from some colour supplement (I was learning Sanskrit at the time, at the Mary Ward Centre for adult literacy.) Some of the above is taken from this rather wonderful website: http://oldsite2.london-rip.com/27?page=1 (There is a photo, but it is not salvific.)

The unconscious: the idea insofar as it permeates and suffuses the body.

Delivered onto the doormat this morning: the patch of sunshine.

Prom: Runnicles, Beethoven’s 5^th: autumn is coming.

Autumn, Atem, Aten.

To have written of a life, his, hers, yours in a cool, deadbeat style.

Pound – translated from Latin from Greek: do likewise.

Varia 6 August 2013

The star(t).

Prokofiev: tiptoeing across a minefield (passim, but e.g. the 5^th piano concerto).

Clara Haskil and Klemperer in Mozart’s 20^th concerto – what slips she makes, what a great recording.

Robert Casadesus and Mitropoulos in the ‘Emperor’. Probably Beethoven’s least interesting concerto? There is something foursquare, stolid, stodgy about it: something imperial in a ‘Premier Empire’ sense? But the odd rubatos in the conducting hint at something more complex, hidden currents of anxiety and tenderness. (These are all that count, no?)

Hollywood – and celebrity culture in general – confuses the levels. I might love the characters played by Kristin Scott Thomas (to choose an example that leaves me relatively lukewarm), but do I want to know about her pets, her lovers, her dresses, her perfume? Or… am I missing the point, which might be precisely this confusion of levels?

  

Schubert symphony 2 – so fresh! Played by Moscow. (What did I mean, ‘Moscow’? And yet: Schubert in Moscow).

Haydn symphony 98, cond. Bernstein – oddly slow, ponderous trillings, but with feeling. The fate of a symphony is here, now – it is alive here, now. This is such a great symphony. – The slow mvt is too heartonsleevish. But also moving. Listen, listen.

Why shouldn’t I become a Catholic because of Venice?

Academics: reproduction of the academic labour force. ‘Be like us!’

The Explore section in the science museum: full of wonder.  

Advent

These words: akathist, akolouthia, akabasia.

And:

Верую во единаго Бога Отца, Вседержителя, Творца небу и земли, видимым же всем и невидимым. И во единаго Господа Иисуса Христа, Сына Божия, Единороднаго, Иже от Отца рожденнаго прежде всех век; Света от Света, Бога истинна от Бога истинна, рожденна, несотворенна, единосущна Отцу, Имже вся быша. Нас ради человек и нашего ради спасения сшедшаго с небес и воплотившагося от Духа Свята и Марии Девы, и вочеловечшася. Распятаго же за ны при Понтийстем Пилате, и страдавша, и погребенна. И воскресшаго в третий день по Писанием. И возшедшаго на небеса, и седяща одесную Отца. И паки грядущаго со славою судити живым и мертвым, Егоже Царствию не будет конца. И в Духа Святаго, Господа животворящаго, Иже от Отца исходящаго, Иже со Отцем и Сыном спокланяема и сславима, глаголавшего пророки. Во едину Святую, Соборную и Апостольскую Церковь. Исповедую едино крещение во оставление грехов. Чаю воскресения мертвых, и жизни будущаго века. Аминь.

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From a forthcoming programme:

Keyboard composers in the middle years of the seventeenth century seemed fascinated with aspects of the intimate and the contemplative. In this they were perhaps rather close in spirit to the contemporary enigmatic paintings of Johannes Vermeer, several of which depict instruments from the harpsichord family. Harpsichordist Yeo Yat-Soon explores these aspects through the music of Froberger, Couperin, Frescobaldi and Purcell, each of whom is linked to the others through personal acquaintance or stylistic affinity.

Programme

Froberger Suite in A minor
Couperin Prélude à l’imitation de Mr. Froberger; La Piémontaise
Froberger Toccata in A; Meditation, faite sur ma Mort future la quelle se joue lentement avec discretion
Frescobaldi Cento Partite Sopra Passacagli
Purcell A New Ground
Couperin Branle de Basque; Tombeau de Mr. de Blancrocher
Purcell Ground in C minor
Froberger Tombeau fait à Paris sur la mort de Monsieur Blancheroche 

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Sometimes, more is less. The initial shock fades, to be replaced by what claims to be knowledge. But it is NOT: it is the initial shock that is the knowledge.

Example: on the back of the Folio edn of Patrick Chamoiseau, Écrire en pays dominé, taken down idly from the bookshelves (‘taken down idly from the bookshelves’: it has always started there), waiting for the Sunday paper (a squeak of bike brakes from the street, the damp fluffy plop of the paper on the muddy mat, a brief interruption), I read:

Comment écrire alors que ton imaginaire s’abreuve, du matin jusqu’aux rêves, à des images, des pensées, des valeurs qui ne sont pas les tiennes? Comment écrire quand ce que tu es végète en dehors des élans qui déterminent ta vie?

Comment écrire, dominé ?

L’unique hurlement est en toi.

Un cri fixe qui te pourfend chaque jour : il s’oppose à ces radios, à ces télévisions, à ces emprises publicitaires, à ces prétendues informations, à ce monologue d’images occidentales fascinantes ; il refuse cette aliénation active au Développement dans laquelle les tiens ne sentent même plus que leur génie intime est congédié.

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This feeling – outside of the little I want to know about PC – his struggle is not mine – I have been nursing it like a snake at my breast for a long time now - will not stop me hurrying off to read the paper, but the glittering banality of its images ALIÉNATION ACTIVE will be all the more repellent.

I'm outer here.