Don’t Make A Fuss
In August 1947 George Orwell nearly drowned himself, his infant son and his niece and nephew; and noticed some interesting activity by cormorants and puffins.
In August 1947 George Orwell nearly drowned himself, his infant son and his niece and nephew; and noticed some interesting activity by cormorants and puffins.
We may have left certain practices of our childhood and youth behind, but they haven’t gone away, you know.
We all know what is happening, but what will happen in the end? Keep turning those pages.
The fables, Seamus Heaney has written, that corpus of tales of innocent or treacherous beasts and birds, were once part of the common oral culture of Europe, a store of folk wisdom as pervasive and unifying at vernacular level as the doctrines of Christianity were in the higher realms of scholastic culture.
As a child, Nobel laureate Imre Kertesz was bought a beautiful notebook. So beautiful he didn’t want to write anything unworthy in it.
Men and women, we were told in school, have been engineered by God to be attracted to each other and thus ensure the continuance of the human race. But perhaps there is a design fault.
What are all those old books for anyway? Could you not get them out of the library? Do you ever read them? I never see you reading them.
Saul Bellow judged that many people he knew had made too much of an investment in the difficult texts of Marxism to ever accept that it no longer had very much to say about reality. Can we say that about any later intellectual fashions?
Rebecca Solnit is far from impressed by the corporate behemoth that owns everyone’s favourite search engine – and all its works, and all its pomps.
Miss Fox, of Fleet Street near Charing Cross, though of uncertain family, unknown fortune and indifferent parts, was a young woman of very definite opinions, many of them other people’s.