shakespeare68's profile picture. Shares the wound that recounts the injury : how they retail resentment. S.M.  21.5 +

shakespeare68

@shakespeare68

Shares the wound that recounts the injury : how they retail resentment. S.M. 21.5 +

The inchoate notions of nurseried scholars -- oracles of the bellybutton.


So lightweight that if you threw her entire œuvre off the top of a skyscraper, it would never hit the ground.


As old bags are emptied long before the landfill.


No, I prefer women to be buttoned-up. Indeed, so buttoned-up as to be closed, shut away and even non-existent ;)


Indeed, she's never looked better. First time I've seen her covered up.


The Atlantic slave trade. Brings to mind Bill's Measure for Measure. There was a wreck many years ago, but no one we meet was on board. Which is not to say that those we meet haven't been affected by the shipwreck, but that their grievances always strike us as somewhat strained.


The question is not what are we to do with those who, for whatever reason, are stuck at zero, but, rather, what are we going to do with those who are good -- having maximised all their resources -- but not good enough (let's say, a solid 8 out of 10), those who are so ...


close to the haut monde that they can almost touch it? It's these people that, in time, having watched at hand the 9s and 10s living the high life, manufacturing, without being stretched, a near heaven on earth for themselves, ...


with the pick of the crop within easy reach and the crème de la crème at their fingertips, forever benefiting from superior, and perhaps too often unearned, station, the charmed heirs to nature's lottery of innate gifts and/or society's practice of inheritance, ...


yes, it is these that have had to experience this pressed hard up against its impenetrable bubble that will most likely succumb to Marxism and seek meritocracy's end, and these that, maybe, possess enough talent, not to mention envy and bitterness, to bring it all crashing down.


Thinking about Mrs Beaver in Waugh's A Handful of Dust. Stendhal would be proud, no?


Just so as to know what they're up to, she's checking out the legacy media on one of her laptops -- "Yeah, right. 'He needs to end this senseless war now' -- before he wins it! Ты знаешь, как играть в эту игру?"


I chew diamonds to fashion conversation this scintillating, I'll have you know.


There may be blanched stars and black holes above, but below your cunt there's a smelly arsehole.


Don't much see Lolita. I see winsome words. What I do observe of Lo, though, seems workaday. I think of Eliot's view of Gertrude in Hamlet, viz. that H.'s need for poetry far outstrips the prosaic nature of his mother ... Simply, artists require vectors, no matter how ill-suited.


Most who watched Usain run thought, 'What a remarkable athelete -- how majestic!' ; but there were some, an unmovable minority, who thought, 'Why does he get to be so tall, so quick, so gifted, while I'm so ridiculously average? And why doesn't someone break his legs?' Marxists!


The middle class have had it in for the workers in England since the 1920s (the socialist ruse), because we wouldn't fight their battles for them, so that they could usurp the nobles. Think they're playing a global 4D chess game -- more like fucking draughts down the local rec.


The most cutting rebuke to the authenticity of Martin Amis is, oddly enough, from the Arctic Monkeys (Fake Tales of San Francisco). The working class in his London novels put one in mind of Harry Enfield, you know, Wayne and Waynetta, and Loadsofmoney -- more lampoons than real.


Too many now. I collect them like oddities ... as perhaps Dirac's father did. He'd learn a language each year during the summer recess (he was a teacher). Honestly, I first learnt languages for no other reason than I'd become infatuated with a girl. Whatever gets you there, eh?


and the advent of Liv. I shall make a Russian version for O. I'll put all forty years of my knowledge of that glorious language (so many beautiful patterns -- and the perfect poise of its symmetries!). I will be a work of art in its own right, like Moncrieff's 'Alrdtp'.


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