John - English, yorkshireman living in Bath. I confess that I suffer occasionally from milk-guilt (I have a house-mate who shops more efficiently than I), I also invented the hyphen. Just made that last part up.
My favourite piece of information is that Branwell Brontë, brother of Emily and Charlotte, died standing up leaning against a mantelpiece, in order to prove it could be done.
Wait. My absolute favourite piece of information is the fact that young sloths are so inept that they frequently grab their own arms and legs instead of tree limbs, and fall out of trees — which you might think is mean of me, and of course you’d be right, but not to worry, I was lying: it’s not my favourite piece of information after all.
My absolute supreme favourite piece of information is this: there's a large kink in the Trans-Siberian Railway because when the tsar decreed that the Trans-Siberian Railway should be built, he drew on a map with a ruler where the decreed tracks should run. The ruler had a nick in it.
There is no rule against carrying binoculars in the National Gallery.
autarkical asked: do the Oscars give you any feels?
Yours is the harder course, I see. On the other hand, mine is happening to me.
A monument to discarded ideas.
Killing yourself because you’re queer and you live in Milwaukee.
Weak with boredom.
Violet, you’re turning violet Violet.
Despite the horror and the sorrow, I love the world. I want us to survive.
The real stuff is all walking to work.
Like Thatcher saying ‘We are a grandmother’.
Why, in Othello, when I hear Iago’s final words, ‘From this time forth I never will speak word,’ does it make me think of the holocaust? Think Theodor Adorno, saying after Auschwitz, ‘There shall be no more poetry.’
(nightclub, asking the loveliest girl in the universe what she’s doing) ‘I’m too drunk, so I’m just going to put my hand on my hip and smile.’
Hamlet. Gertrude, adding incest to injury
The night she died, James Joyce and his sister rose at midnight in the hope and fear of meeting their mother’s ghost.
Ulysses: his hymn to her. Jim for Nora.
One of those girls whose password is Love.
Any goodbye that ends in an assertion of love always seems somehow thwarted.