torsdag den 9. februar 2012
Her hviler min indexfinger (til Martin Larsen)
Det var sikker genereret af dårlig samvittighed over endnu ikke have set Mikkel Carls udstilling Too sexy for my skin på HENNINGSEN Gallery, men jeg drømte i nat, at Mikkel, mens jeg og nogle andre, jeg ikke kan huske, befandt os på en bænk i en park i en ophedet diskussion om, jeg kan ikke huske hvad, havde modelleret en lillebitte gravhøj, hvorpå han havde sat et endnu mindre skilt med påskriften: "Her hviler min indexfinger" (index finger er pegefinger på engelsk) - det er sgu da et fint kunstværk, tænkte jeg, i drømmen og da jeg kort efter vågnede.
onsdag den 8. februar 2012
Alle skal være Tues venner
Jeg bliver lettere forbandet på blogmediets demokratiske vegne, når der udspiller sig kvalificerede (og idiotiske) litterære debatter på Facebook, fordi Facebook ikke er pivåbent for enhver ligesom en blog, Facebook er kun åbent for venner og venners pålinkede venner, eller hvis man selv åbner sin profil for alle og enhver (jf. kommentar nedenfor - men hvor er det så, man som ikke-ven (eller ven med alt for mange andre "venner", se parentes nedenfor) skal få nys om, at der bliver skrevet noget læseværdigt - vs. de smarte, opdaterende blogruller, fx på Kornkammeret)), som nu den ret fine diskussion apropos tidligere blogger Tue Andersen Nexøs Information-anmeldelse af Peder Frederik Jensens roman Læreår, der har kørt som tråd fra Tues eget status-link til anmeldelsen med deltagelse af bl.a. Jeppe Brixvold og forfatteren selv (og som jeg ikke selv opdagede i første omgang, men kun i anden omgang, via et link fra forfatter Jensen, som jeg lige så godt ikke kunne have set, det er og bliver et kommunikativt mudder) - jeg kan prøve at linke her, men jeg ved ikke, om det giver adgang for jer, der ikke er Tues venner, og alle skal være Tues venner, up front i helst en blog (der jo gerne kan være kollektiv - fx for informationanmeldere og som udgangspunkt bare med anmeldelses-links) er, hvad jeg mener, og lad mig simpelthen stjæle Tues sidste/seneste kommentar, så I, der ikke er (fx) Tues venner, får nys om, hvad I går glip af, og kan tilslutte jer kravet om universelt venskab med alle, der har noget på hjerte om litteratur:
Hej Peder, tusind tak for kommentaren.
Jeg er meget enig i din analyse, det var det jeg prøvede at skrive i anmeldelsens indledning. Noget af håndens arbejde befolkes i dag (også) af den højere middelklasse, de har prestige, de er på mange måder udtryk for et livsvalg. Bl.a. bådebygger, men jo også dele af kokkebranchen. Andre glider ned mod det ufaglærte og den serie af konnotationer, det har idag. Du skriver (næsten kun) om det ene, Kristian Bang Foss om det andet. Mit forbehold går ikke så meget på den analyse, men snarere på hvor fortællerstemmen stiller sig i forhold til sin hovedperson og hans (nostalgiske) livsvalg. Den fylder dem med eksistentiel dybde, synes jeg, og gør det gennem nogle bestemte sproglige greb. Det betyder så også, at den så at sige overtager nostalgien i hans valg, at den beskriver dem med den her svage toning af højstemthed. Som jeg altså forbinder med halvtressernes litteratur. Men jeg kan tage fejl, det er altid en mulighed.
Hej Peder, tusind tak for kommentaren.
Jeg er meget enig i din analyse, det var det jeg prøvede at skrive i anmeldelsens indledning. Noget af håndens arbejde befolkes i dag (også) af den højere middelklasse, de har prestige, de er på mange måder udtryk for et livsvalg. Bl.a. bådebygger, men jo også dele af kokkebranchen. Andre glider ned mod det ufaglærte og den serie af konnotationer, det har idag. Du skriver (næsten kun) om det ene, Kristian Bang Foss om det andet. Mit forbehold går ikke så meget på den analyse, men snarere på hvor fortællerstemmen stiller sig i forhold til sin hovedperson og hans (nostalgiske) livsvalg. Den fylder dem med eksistentiel dybde, synes jeg, og gør det gennem nogle bestemte sproglige greb. Det betyder så også, at den så at sige overtager nostalgien i hans valg, at den beskriver dem med den her svage toning af højstemthed. Som jeg altså forbinder med halvtressernes litteratur. Men jeg kan tage fejl, det er altid en mulighed.
Lysende kæber (til Harald Voetmann)
Jeg fik smukt nok en bog for at læse op af Store forventninger i går, ikke en af Dickens, men stadigvæk en temmelig britisk en, The Worst Jobs in History af Tony Robinson, og her er fx og apropos børnearbejderen Dickens beskrivelsen af jobbet som
Match Maker (Victorian Style)
In the nineteenth century matches were made by dipping little wooden sticks into white phosphorus. The fumes from this poisonous chemical caused the dreadful condition known as 'phossy jaw', which blighted the lives of those who made the matches. Its first symptoms were toothache and painful swelling of the gums and jaw. Then came abcesses and foul discharge. Like ghastly glow-in-the-dark toys, the victim's rotting jawbones would give off a ghostly light. The only treatment was an agonizing and disfiguring operation in which the jawbone was removed surgicallly Although phosphorus was banned in Sweden and the USA, the British government refused to follow their example, arguing that such a move would be a restraint of free trade.
For many people Victorian Match Girls conjure up the sentimental images of bare-footed waifs in the snow selling individual matches. But the Match Girls at the Bryant and May factory in London were pioneers of workers' rights. They worked up to fourteen hours a day for a wage of less than five shillings a week. That was before fines. For offences like talking, dropping matches or going to the toilet without permission, the girls would have their wages docked by anything from threepence to one shilling. Their hours were 6.30 a.m. in summer (8.00 a.m. in winter) to 6.00 p.m. If they were late, they were fined a half-day's pay.
These young women were feisty. A commentator described them off-duty: "They have fashions of their own; they delight in a quantity of colour, and they can no more live without their large hats and huge feathers than 'Arry can live without his bell-bottom trousers. They all sport high-heeled boots, and consider a fringe an absolutely essential."
Match Maker (Victorian Style)
In the nineteenth century matches were made by dipping little wooden sticks into white phosphorus. The fumes from this poisonous chemical caused the dreadful condition known as 'phossy jaw', which blighted the lives of those who made the matches. Its first symptoms were toothache and painful swelling of the gums and jaw. Then came abcesses and foul discharge. Like ghastly glow-in-the-dark toys, the victim's rotting jawbones would give off a ghostly light. The only treatment was an agonizing and disfiguring operation in which the jawbone was removed surgicallly Although phosphorus was banned in Sweden and the USA, the British government refused to follow their example, arguing that such a move would be a restraint of free trade.
For many people Victorian Match Girls conjure up the sentimental images of bare-footed waifs in the snow selling individual matches. But the Match Girls at the Bryant and May factory in London were pioneers of workers' rights. They worked up to fourteen hours a day for a wage of less than five shillings a week. That was before fines. For offences like talking, dropping matches or going to the toilet without permission, the girls would have their wages docked by anything from threepence to one shilling. Their hours were 6.30 a.m. in summer (8.00 a.m. in winter) to 6.00 p.m. If they were late, they were fined a half-day's pay.
These young women were feisty. A commentator described them off-duty: "They have fashions of their own; they delight in a quantity of colour, and they can no more live without their large hats and huge feathers than 'Arry can live without his bell-bottom trousers. They all sport high-heeled boots, and consider a fringe an absolutely essential."
Øv! Jeg kunne ikke være mere enig
i Niels Franks ANDEN natlige populist-blogpost på Promenaden, og hvad værre er: jeg kunne heller ikke have sagt det bedre eller præcisere; Frank rammer dødeligt i plet med sine versaler, døden er dørvogtere (meget tit kaldet redaktører, ja, vi er inde på hudløst område her - trods alt sjældent Frank er i kontakt med avisernes dørvogtere, blandt hvilke kronikredaktører næppe er de strengeste), der på vegne af (sjældent på egne vegne nemlig) læserfolket opstiller FORMIDLING, FORENKLING og OPDRAGELSE som de primære hensyn i og formål med en tekst - og det er livsvigtigt for kunsten, at den ikke er forpligtet på noget FOR AT (som den ikke sjældent er hos Frank, også i visse af hans blogposter, kunsten er til FOR AT nedbryde hierarkier og kærnefamilien fx).
tirsdag den 7. februar 2012
Tal om månen, mester
Som jeg gik mod stationen forbi de mørke, tætte Hellerup-villaer, som den ellers insisterende måne ikke evnede at lyse op, efter bibliotekets maratonoplæsning, var det umuligt ikke at besværge, hvor animerede de kunne ville være blevet, villaerne, havde Dickens' pen taget dem under kærlig behandling, for slet ikke at tale om månen.
Længe leve serialiteten
Vel er Sons of Anarchy ikke Little Dorrit (eller The Wire eller Breaking Bad for den sags skyld), men det er en FØLJETON, en ca. ok én, og derfor helt i orden at trætte øjnene til sent denne fødselsdags aften.
Henkastet, henrevet monstrøsitet
Fra G. K. Chestertons bog Charles Dickens, 1906, som var noget af en åbenbaring, da jeg skrev speciale om Dickens og Our Mutual Friend for 17 år siden:
We shall consider Dickens in many other capacities, but let us put this one first. He was the voice in England of this humane intoxication and expansion, this encouraging of anybody to be anything. His best books are a carnival of liberty, and there is more of the real spirit of the French Revolution in "Nicholas Nickleby" than in "The Tale of Two Cities." His work has the great glory of the Revolution, the bidding of every man to be himself; it has also the revolutionary deficiency: it seems to think that this mere emancipation is enough. No man encouraged his characters so much as Dickens. "I am an affectionate father," he says, "to every child of my fancy." He was not only an affectionate father, he was an over-indulgent father. The children of his fancy are spoilt children. They shake the house like heavy and shouting schoolboys; they smash the story to pieces like so much furniture. When we moderns write stories our characters are better controlled. But, alas! our characters are rather easier to control. We are in no danger from the gigantic gambols of creatures like Mantalini and Micawber. We are in no danger of giving our readers too much Weller or Wegg. We have not got it to give. When we experience the ungovernable sense of life which goes along with the old Dickens sense of liberty, we experience the best of the revolution. We are filled with the first of all democratic doctrines, that all men are interesting; Dickens tried to make some of his people appear dull people, but he could not keep them dull. He could not make a monotonous man. The bores in his books are brighter than the wits in other books.
(...)
The disadvantage under which Dickens has fallen, both as an artist and a moralist, is very plain. His misfortune is that neither of the two last movements in literary criticism has done him any good. He has suffered alike from his enemies, and from the enemies of his enemies. The facts to which I refer are familiar. When the world first awoke from the mere hypnotism of Dickens, from the direct tyranny of his temperament, there was, of course, a reaction. At the head of it came the Realists, with their documents, like Miss Flite. They declared that scenes and types in Dickens were wholly impossible (in which they were perfectly right), and on this rather paradoxical ground objected to them as literature. They were not "like life," and there, they thought, was an end of the matter. The realist for a time prevailed. But Realists did not enjoy their victory (if they enjoyed anything) very long. A more symbolic school of criticism soon arose. Men saw that it was necessary to give a much deeper and more delicate meaning to the expression "like life." Streets are not life, cities and civilisations are not life, faces even and voices are not life itself Life is within, and no man hath seen it at any time. As for our meals, and our manners, and our daily dress, these are things exactly like sonnets; they are random symbols of the soul. One man tries to express himself in books, another in boots; both probably fail. Our solid houses and square meals are in the strict sense fiction. They are things made up to typify our thoughts. The coat a man wears may be wholly fictitious; the movement of his hands may be quite unlike life.
This much the intelligence of men soon perceived. And by this much Dickens's fame should have greatly profited. For Dickens is "like life" in the truer sense, in the sense that he is akin to the living principle in us and in the universe; he is like life, at least in this detail, that he is alive. His art is like life, because, like life, it cares for nothing outside itself, and goes on its way rejoicing. Both produce monsters with a kind of carelessness, like enormous by-products; life producing the rhinoceros, and art Mr. Bunsby. Art indeed copies life in not copying life, for life copies nothing. Dickens's art is like life because, like life, it is irresponsible, because, like life, it is incredible.
(...)
It is evident, in short, why even those who admire exaggeration do not admire Dickens. He is exaggerating the wrong thing. They know what it is to feel a sadness so strange and deep that only impossible characters can express it: they do not know what it is to feel a joy so vital and violent that only impossible characters can express that. They know that the soul can be so sad as to dream naturally of the blue faces of the corpses of Baudelaire: they do not know that the soul can be so cheerful as to dream naturally of the blue face of Major Bagstock. They know that there is a point of depression at which one believes in Tintagiles: they do not know that there is a point of exhilaration at which one believes in Mr. Wegg. To them the impossibilities of Dickens seem much more impossible than they really are, because they are already attuned to the opposite impossibilities of Maeterlinck. For every mood there is an appropriate impossibility -- a decent and tactful impossibility -- fitted to the frame of mind. Every train of thought may end in an ecstasy, and all roads lead to Elfland. But few now walk far enough along the street of Dickens to find the place where the cockney villas grow so comic that they become poetical. People do not know how far mere good spirits will go. For instance, we never think (as the old folk-lore did) of good spirits reaching to the spiritual world. We see this in the complete absence from modern, popular supernaturalism of the old popular mirth. We hear plenty to-day of the wisdom of the spiritual world; but we do not hear, as our fathers did, of the folly of the spiritual world, of the tricks of the gods, and the jokes of the patron saints. Our popular tales tell us of a man who is so wise that he touches the supernatural, like Dr. Nikola; but they never tell us (like the popular tales of the past) of a man who was so silly that he touched the supernatural, like Bottom the Weaver. We do not understand the dark and transcendental sympathy between fairies and fools. We understand a devout occultism, an evil occultism, a tragic occultism, but a farcical occultism is beyond us. Yet a farcical occultism is the very essence of "The Midsummer Night's Dream." It is also the right and credible essence of "The Christmas Carol." Whether we understand it depends upon whether we can understand that exhilaration is not a physical accident, but a mystical fact; that exhilaration can be infinite, like sorrow; that a joke can be so big that it breaks the roof of the stars. By simply going on being absurd, a thing can become godlike; there is but one step from the ridiculous to the sublime.
- vise ord om en vild skrift
We shall consider Dickens in many other capacities, but let us put this one first. He was the voice in England of this humane intoxication and expansion, this encouraging of anybody to be anything. His best books are a carnival of liberty, and there is more of the real spirit of the French Revolution in "Nicholas Nickleby" than in "The Tale of Two Cities." His work has the great glory of the Revolution, the bidding of every man to be himself; it has also the revolutionary deficiency: it seems to think that this mere emancipation is enough. No man encouraged his characters so much as Dickens. "I am an affectionate father," he says, "to every child of my fancy." He was not only an affectionate father, he was an over-indulgent father. The children of his fancy are spoilt children. They shake the house like heavy and shouting schoolboys; they smash the story to pieces like so much furniture. When we moderns write stories our characters are better controlled. But, alas! our characters are rather easier to control. We are in no danger from the gigantic gambols of creatures like Mantalini and Micawber. We are in no danger of giving our readers too much Weller or Wegg. We have not got it to give. When we experience the ungovernable sense of life which goes along with the old Dickens sense of liberty, we experience the best of the revolution. We are filled with the first of all democratic doctrines, that all men are interesting; Dickens tried to make some of his people appear dull people, but he could not keep them dull. He could not make a monotonous man. The bores in his books are brighter than the wits in other books.
(...)
The disadvantage under which Dickens has fallen, both as an artist and a moralist, is very plain. His misfortune is that neither of the two last movements in literary criticism has done him any good. He has suffered alike from his enemies, and from the enemies of his enemies. The facts to which I refer are familiar. When the world first awoke from the mere hypnotism of Dickens, from the direct tyranny of his temperament, there was, of course, a reaction. At the head of it came the Realists, with their documents, like Miss Flite. They declared that scenes and types in Dickens were wholly impossible (in which they were perfectly right), and on this rather paradoxical ground objected to them as literature. They were not "like life," and there, they thought, was an end of the matter. The realist for a time prevailed. But Realists did not enjoy their victory (if they enjoyed anything) very long. A more symbolic school of criticism soon arose. Men saw that it was necessary to give a much deeper and more delicate meaning to the expression "like life." Streets are not life, cities and civilisations are not life, faces even and voices are not life itself Life is within, and no man hath seen it at any time. As for our meals, and our manners, and our daily dress, these are things exactly like sonnets; they are random symbols of the soul. One man tries to express himself in books, another in boots; both probably fail. Our solid houses and square meals are in the strict sense fiction. They are things made up to typify our thoughts. The coat a man wears may be wholly fictitious; the movement of his hands may be quite unlike life.
This much the intelligence of men soon perceived. And by this much Dickens's fame should have greatly profited. For Dickens is "like life" in the truer sense, in the sense that he is akin to the living principle in us and in the universe; he is like life, at least in this detail, that he is alive. His art is like life, because, like life, it cares for nothing outside itself, and goes on its way rejoicing. Both produce monsters with a kind of carelessness, like enormous by-products; life producing the rhinoceros, and art Mr. Bunsby. Art indeed copies life in not copying life, for life copies nothing. Dickens's art is like life because, like life, it is irresponsible, because, like life, it is incredible.
(...)
It is evident, in short, why even those who admire exaggeration do not admire Dickens. He is exaggerating the wrong thing. They know what it is to feel a sadness so strange and deep that only impossible characters can express it: they do not know what it is to feel a joy so vital and violent that only impossible characters can express that. They know that the soul can be so sad as to dream naturally of the blue faces of the corpses of Baudelaire: they do not know that the soul can be so cheerful as to dream naturally of the blue face of Major Bagstock. They know that there is a point of depression at which one believes in Tintagiles: they do not know that there is a point of exhilaration at which one believes in Mr. Wegg. To them the impossibilities of Dickens seem much more impossible than they really are, because they are already attuned to the opposite impossibilities of Maeterlinck. For every mood there is an appropriate impossibility -- a decent and tactful impossibility -- fitted to the frame of mind. Every train of thought may end in an ecstasy, and all roads lead to Elfland. But few now walk far enough along the street of Dickens to find the place where the cockney villas grow so comic that they become poetical. People do not know how far mere good spirits will go. For instance, we never think (as the old folk-lore did) of good spirits reaching to the spiritual world. We see this in the complete absence from modern, popular supernaturalism of the old popular mirth. We hear plenty to-day of the wisdom of the spiritual world; but we do not hear, as our fathers did, of the folly of the spiritual world, of the tricks of the gods, and the jokes of the patron saints. Our popular tales tell us of a man who is so wise that he touches the supernatural, like Dr. Nikola; but they never tell us (like the popular tales of the past) of a man who was so silly that he touched the supernatural, like Bottom the Weaver. We do not understand the dark and transcendental sympathy between fairies and fools. We understand a devout occultism, an evil occultism, a tragic occultism, but a farcical occultism is beyond us. Yet a farcical occultism is the very essence of "The Midsummer Night's Dream." It is also the right and credible essence of "The Christmas Carol." Whether we understand it depends upon whether we can understand that exhilaration is not a physical accident, but a mystical fact; that exhilaration can be infinite, like sorrow; that a joke can be so big that it breaks the roof of the stars. By simply going on being absurd, a thing can become godlike; there is but one step from the ridiculous to the sublime.
- vise ord om en vild skrift
Vi læser op lige nu! Kom og vær stille!
Maratonoplæsningen på Gentofte Hovedibliotek af Store Forventninger i dag på Dickens 200 års fødselsdag begyndte klokken 10 og kører indtil klokken 7 i aften; jeg har ikke kunnet finde et præcist program over, hvem der læser op hvornår, men foruden mig, der er på ca. klokken 17.00, medvirker også skuespilleren Vigga Bro og bogens oversætter Niels Brunse; jeg synes, man skal vove sig ud i den lidet dickenske, glasklare kulde og lægge øre til fødselsdagsbarnets pænt udødelige skriftmesterskab.
Fra Dickens til mig: ET ÆGTE NUMMER!
Jeg var i Vangsgaards Antikvariat i går eftermiddags for at blive interviewet til Skønlitteratur på P1 på lørdag ved Nanna Mogensen og kollega Klaus Rothstein og fik ikke råbt nær nok op om mit idols ubændige fortræffeligheder, jeg burde aldrig have holdt inde, men så havde de til salg for latterlige 300 kr. pr. stk. (fordi samlingen ikke var komplet) enkelteksemplarer af de 20 månedlige føljetonhæfter Dickens' roman Little Dorrit oprindeligt udkom som 1855-57, og jeg har aldrig troet, jeg kunne komme i nærheden af Dickens-originaludgaver, så jeg har aldrig ledt efter dem i danske antikvariater, men selvfølgelig skulle jeg have mig et af de smukke, blå hæfter og helt umuligt at vælge, ud over at det skulle være 1 med fasthængende forside (nu min Alice lige var faldet totalt fra hinanden), jeg snuppede rimeligt vilkårligt nr. 3, og det er så helt utroligt fint og magisk at holde i sine hænder og ae ganske blidt, inden jeg forsigtigt bladrer mig frem til de hyperrealistiske annoncer, som hæftet indledes med:
EDMISTON'S
CRIMEAN OUTFIT
18 P 18 s
.
Comprising the following requisities for OFFICERS proceeding to the seat of War, viz :-
Waterproof Cape and Hood
,, Camp Boots
,, Ground Sheet
Folding Bedstead
Mattrass and Pair of Blankets
Canteen for Two Persons
Sponging Bath
Bicket and Bason
Brush Case
Lantern
Havresack
Pair of Pack Saddle Trunks, wirh Straps and Slinging Irons complete
Attention is respectfully invited to
EDMISTON'S WATERPROOF WINTER CAPE, WITH HOOD
CAMEL-HAIR LINED
Hæftet indeholder 3 kapitler, IX, X og XI, her begyndelsen på det første, "Little Mother"; tænk at have ventet en hel måned og få fingre i det nye hæfte omsider og grådigt læse løs og vide, at forfatteren skrev manisk videre, mens man sad eller snarere stod og blæstes omkuld:
The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the snuggery windows; and when it did come; it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. But the equinoctical gales were blowing out to sea, and the impartial south-west wind in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow Marshalsea (gældsfængslet). While it roared thorough the steeple of Saint George Church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.
Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though his bed had been in a more private situtation, and less affected by the raking out of yesterday's fire, the kindling of today's under the collegiate bowler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the sweeping and and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gates were opened.
TO BE CONTINUED (står der IKKE til sidst i hæftet, det gav sig selv)
EDMISTON'S
CRIMEAN OUTFIT
18 P 18 s
.
Comprising the following requisities for OFFICERS proceeding to the seat of War, viz :-
Waterproof Cape and Hood
,, Camp Boots
,, Ground Sheet
Folding Bedstead
Mattrass and Pair of Blankets
Canteen for Two Persons
Sponging Bath
Bicket and Bason
Brush Case
Lantern
Havresack
Pair of Pack Saddle Trunks, wirh Straps and Slinging Irons complete
Attention is respectfully invited to
EDMISTON'S WATERPROOF WINTER CAPE, WITH HOOD
CAMEL-HAIR LINED
Hæftet indeholder 3 kapitler, IX, X og XI, her begyndelsen på det første, "Little Mother"; tænk at have ventet en hel måned og få fingre i det nye hæfte omsider og grådigt læse løs og vide, at forfatteren skrev manisk videre, mens man sad eller snarere stod og blæstes omkuld:
The morning light was in no hurry to climb the prison wall and look in at the snuggery windows; and when it did come; it would have been more welcome if it had come alone, instead of bringing a rush of rain with it. But the equinoctical gales were blowing out to sea, and the impartial south-west wind in its flight, would not neglect even the narrow Marshalsea (gældsfængslet). While it roared thorough the steeple of Saint George Church, and twirled all the cowls in the neighbourhood, it made a swoop to beat the Southwark smoke into the jail; and, plunging down the chimneys of the few early collegians who were yet lighting their fires, half suffocated them.
Arthur Clennam would have been little disposed to linger in bed, though his bed had been in a more private situtation, and less affected by the raking out of yesterday's fire, the kindling of today's under the collegiate bowler, the filling of that Spartan vessel at the pump, the sweeping and and sawdusting of the common room, and other such preparations. Heartily glad to see the morning, though little rested by the night, he turned out as soon as he could distinguish objects about him, and paced the yard for two heavy hours before the gates were opened.
TO BE CONTINUED (står der IKKE til sidst i hæftet, det gav sig selv)
mandag den 6. februar 2012
Bemærk venligst støjen!
(tekst på skilt over skinnerne på Nørreport)
PLEASE NOTICE
NOISE ON THE PLATFORM
PLEASE NOTICE
NOISE ON THE PLATFORM
Som nogen, der også er nogen
Fra annonce for Aarhus Teaters dramatisering af Josefine Klougarts Hallerne og et møde med forfatteren: "Josefine Klougart er blevet sammenlignet med så forskellige kulturpersonligheder som Lars von Trier og Jens Christian Grøndahl." Lad mig give annoncekampagnen mulighed for at namedroppe yderligere og sammenligne Josefine Klougart med så forskellige kulturpersonligheder som Henning Larsen og Peter Bastian og Olafur Eliasson og Nicolas Bro og Thomas Blachman og Uffe Elbæk og Morten Olsen og Prins Henrik og Holger Danske.
(jeg ville også have sammenlignet med rottekongen Cibrino, men reglen var hvide, mandlige, levende kulturpersonligheder og Cibrino er en hvid, mandlig, afdød kulturpersonlighed (Holger Danske sover bare))
(jeg ville også have sammenlignet med rottekongen Cibrino, men reglen var hvide, mandlige, levende kulturpersonligheder og Cibrino er en hvid, mandlig, afdød kulturpersonlighed (Holger Danske sover bare))
søndag den 5. februar 2012
Bogligt løvfald
Så pludselig i og med denne læsning nr. 10-12 er bogen helt mør, og alle sider så godt som, der ikke er frie allerede, river sig automatisk løs, straks jeg vender dem, med det mindste, sprøde ritsj - bogen: The Annotated Alice, uundværlig, generøst overkommenteret udgave ved Martin Gardner af Alice's Adventures in Wonderland og Through the Looking Glass, i Penguinudgaven, købt af min mor, det superrationelle menneske, i april 1967, halvandet år før jeg kom til verden. Her er Gardners nu fuldstændig løsagtige note til hertugindens bon mot i kapitel 9: "Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves":
Surely few american readers have recognized this for what it is, an extremely ingenious switch on the British proverb "Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves". The Duchess' remark is sometimes quoted as a good rule to follow in writing prose or even poetry. Unsound, of course.
Surely few american readers have recognized this for what it is, an extremely ingenious switch on the British proverb "Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of themselves". The Duchess' remark is sometimes quoted as a good rule to follow in writing prose or even poetry. Unsound, of course.
lørdag den 4. februar 2012
Det er koldt som en brøndgravers røvetc.
Det er koldt som en brøndgravers røvsyge frokost, der er en dåse dybfrossent babymos, pære og gulerod, købt for hans sidste røde øre i Lidls tilbudsfrysedisk med garanti for, at mosen har været nedfrosset mindst ti år og har vandret som en anden Ahasverus fra frysedisk til frysedisk i det nordlige Europa, fra Hamborg til Helsinki til Lillehammer til Vesterbro, hvor brøndgraveren faldt i staver over det umulige valg mellem pære og gulerod og fersken og avocado, indtil en indre stemme, som han altid havde kaldt Stauning pga. dens autoritative, socialdemokratiske klang, sagde: pære og gulerod eller kaos, og selvom brøndgraveren altid havde længtes efter den totale opløsning og det absolutte anarki, orkede han det ikke den onsdag eftermiddag klokken 16:43, så pære og gulerod blev det, frossent som et dyb.
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