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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
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
“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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“...reduction is precisely what a work of art opposes. Easy answers...annotations, arrows...an oudine of its design...very seriously mislead.”
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“It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you'd do something else.”
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“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know”
― The Complete Poems
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know”
― The Complete Poems
“With me, travelling is frankly a vice. The temptation to indulge in it is one which I find almost as hard to resist as the temptation to read promiscuously, omnivorously and without purpose. From time to time, it is true, I make a desperate resolution to mend my ways. I sketch out programmes of useful, serious reading; I try to turn my rambling voyages into systematic tours through the history of art and civilization. But without much success. After a little I relapse into my old bad ways. Deplorable weakness! I try to comfort myself with the hope that even my vices may be of some profit to me.”
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