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Scribble Orca
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Scribble Orca
is currently reading
progress:
(page 123 of 434)
"He rambled on. Between narcoleptic fits, Gabriel vaguely heard, as a hum, Mugrabin’s story as it unrolled its slimy meanderings. As was to be expected from a man with a supposedly long habit of clandestinity and false identity, his outpouring soon took on the proportions of a flood." — Aug 31, 2013 07:55AM
"He rambled on. Between narcoleptic fits, Gabriel vaguely heard, as a hum, Mugrabin’s story as it unrolled its slimy meanderings. As was to be expected from a man with a supposedly long habit of clandestinity and false identity, his outpouring soon took on the proportions of a flood." — Aug 31, 2013 07:55AM
Scribble Orca
is currently reading
Reading for the 2nd time
Scribble Orca said:
"
Off-the-cuff and unjustly doing:
"Cloaked in a residue of fog that neither dissipated nor densened into rain, somewhat defeated because of a torpid sirocco more atmosphere than wind, dozing in a past grand and splendid and surely also immodest verging ...more "
progress:
(34%)
"Lui perde la voglia di gridare. Certo che non lo ama. Come potrebbe amare, lei, un uomo simile. Sta con lui per onesta convenienza, diciamo, e può anche essere che la figlia sia nata per una convenienza altrettanto onesta. Lei ha il dono di rendere onesto tutto ciò che fa, ma lui non si sente più d’aggredirla, per questo, visto che l’onestà non le risparmia certo giuste dosi di umiliazione e sofferenza." — May 11, 2013 08:20AM
"Lui perde la voglia di gridare. Certo che non lo ama. Come potrebbe amare, lei, un uomo simile. Sta con lui per onesta convenienza, diciamo, e può anche essere che la figlia sia nata per una convenienza altrettanto onesta. Lei ha il dono di rendere onesto tutto ciò che fa, ma lui non si sente più d’aggredirla, per questo, visto che l’onestà non le risparmia certo giuste dosi di umiliazione e sofferenza." — May 11, 2013 08:20AM
Scribble Orca said:
"
update: Joyce' Finnegans Wake is given very interesting treatment in Verbivoracious Festschrift Volume Three: The SyllabusThe problem with Finn Egan[apostrophedie]s Splashy Fest-o-the-Dye Inn is muchly how there is to admire and lake, and how much to ...more "
progress:
(page 72 of 523)
"Eiskaffier said (Louigi’s, you know that man’s, brillant savourain): Mon foie, you wish to ave some homelette, yes, lady? Good, mein leber! Your hegg he must break himself. See, I crack, so, he sit in the poele, umbedimbt! A perspirer (over sixty) who was keeping up his tennises panted he kne ho har twa to clect infamatios but a diffpair flannels climb wall and trespassing on doorbell." — May 11, 2013 08:10AM
"Eiskaffier said (Louigi’s, you know that man’s, brillant savourain): Mon foie, you wish to ave some homelette, yes, lady? Good, mein leber! Your hegg he must break himself. See, I crack, so, he sit in the poele, umbedimbt! A perspirer (over sixty) who was keeping up his tennises panted he kne ho har twa to clect infamatios but a diffpair flannels climb wall and trespassing on doorbell." — May 11, 2013 08:10AM
“[On Chopin's Preludes:]
"His genius was filled with the mysterious sounds of nature, but transformed into sublime equivalents in musical thought, and not through slavish imitation of the actual external sounds. His composition of that night was surely filled with raindrops, resounding clearly on the tiles of the Charterhouse, but it had been transformed in his imagination and in his song into tears falling upon his heart from the sky. ... The gift of Chopin is [the expression of] the deepest and fullest feelings and emotions that have ever existed. He made a single instrument speak a language of infinity. He could often sum up, in ten lines that a child could play, poems of a boundless exaltation, dramas of unequalled power.”
― Story of My Life: The Autobiography of George Sand
"His genius was filled with the mysterious sounds of nature, but transformed into sublime equivalents in musical thought, and not through slavish imitation of the actual external sounds. His composition of that night was surely filled with raindrops, resounding clearly on the tiles of the Charterhouse, but it had been transformed in his imagination and in his song into tears falling upon his heart from the sky. ... The gift of Chopin is [the expression of] the deepest and fullest feelings and emotions that have ever existed. He made a single instrument speak a language of infinity. He could often sum up, in ten lines that a child could play, poems of a boundless exaltation, dramas of unequalled power.”
― Story of My Life: The Autobiography of George Sand
“...reduction is precisely what a work of art opposes. Easy answers...annotations, arrows...an oudine of its design...very seriously mislead.”
―
―
“Besides,” said Mr Norrell, “I really have no desire to write reviews of other people's books. Modern publications upon magic are the most pernicious things in the world, full of misinformation and wrong opinions.”
“Then sir, you may say so. The ruder you are, the more the editors will be delighted.”
“But it is my own opinions which I wish to make better known, not other people's.”
“Ah, but, sir,” said Lascelles, “it is precisely by passing judgements upon other people's work and pointing out their errors that readers can be made to understand your own opinions better. It is the easiest thing in the world to turn a review to one's own ends. One only need mention the book once or twice and for the rest of the article one may develop one's theme just as one chuses. It is, I assure you, what every body else does.”
“Hmm,” said Mr Norrell thoughtfully, “you may be right. But, no. It would seem as if I were lending support to what ought never to have been published in the first place.”
― Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
“Then sir, you may say so. The ruder you are, the more the editors will be delighted.”
“But it is my own opinions which I wish to make better known, not other people's.”
“Ah, but, sir,” said Lascelles, “it is precisely by passing judgements upon other people's work and pointing out their errors that readers can be made to understand your own opinions better. It is the easiest thing in the world to turn a review to one's own ends. One only need mention the book once or twice and for the rest of the article one may develop one's theme just as one chuses. It is, I assure you, what every body else does.”
“Hmm,” said Mr Norrell thoughtfully, “you may be right. But, no. It would seem as if I were lending support to what ought never to have been published in the first place.”
― Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
“There is only one thing that you write for yourself, and that is a shopping list.”
― On Literature
― On Literature
“Outside of the dreary rubbish that is churned out by god knows how many hacks of varying degrees of talent, the novel is, it seems to me, a very special and rarefied kind of literary form, and was, for a brief moment only, wide-ranging in its sociocultural influence. For the most part, it has always been an acquired taste and it asks a good deal from its audience. Our great contemporary problem is in separating that which is really serious from that which is either frivolously and fashionably "radical" and that which is a kind of literary analogy to the Letterman show. It's not that there is pop culture around, it's that so few people can see the difference between it and high culture, if you will. Morton Feldman is not Stephen Sondheim. The latter is a wonderful what-he-is, but he is not what-he-is-not. To pretend that he is is to insult Feldman and embarrass Sondheim, to enact a process of homogenization that is something like pretending that David Mamet, say, breathes the same air as Samuel Beckett. People used to understand that there is, at any given time, a handful of superb writers or painters or whatever--and then there are all the rest. Nothing wrong with that. But it now makes people very uncomfortable, very edgy, as if the very idea of a Matisse or a Charles Ives or a Thelonious Monk is an affront to the notion of "ain't everything just great!" We have the spectacle of perfectly nice, respectable, harmless writers, etc., being accorded the status of important artists...Essentially the serious novelist should do what s/he can do and simply forgo the idea of a substantial audience.”
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