January 2009
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“It was the dirty end of winter
Along the loom of the land
When I walked with sweet sally
Hand upon hand
And the wind it bit bitter
For a boy of no means
With no shoes on his feet
And a knife in his jeans
Along the loom of the land
The mission bells peeled
From the tower at saint marys
Down to reprobate fields
And I saw that the world
Was all blessed and bright
And sally breathed softly
In the majestic night
The elms and the poplars
Were turning their backs
Past the rumbling station
We followed the tracks
We found an untrodden path
And followed it down
Like a dislodged crown
My hands they burned In the folds of her coat
Breathing milky white air
From deep in her throat
I told her the moon Was a magical thing
That it shone gold in winter
And silver in spring
And we walked and walked
Across the endless sands
Just me and my sally
Along the loom of the land” —Nick Cave | The Loom Of The Land lyrics
Along the loom of the land
When I walked with sweet sally
Hand upon hand
And the wind it bit bitter
For a boy of no means
With no shoes on his feet
And a knife in his jeans
Along the loom of the land
The mission bells peeled
From the tower at saint marys
Down to reprobate fields
And I saw that the world
Was all blessed and bright
And sally breathed softly
In the majestic night
The elms and the poplars
Were turning their backs
Past the rumbling station
We followed the tracks
We found an untrodden path
And followed it down
Like a dislodged crown
My hands they burned In the folds of her coat
Breathing milky white air
From deep in her throat
I told her the moon Was a magical thing
That it shone gold in winter
And silver in spring
And we walked and walked
Across the endless sands
Just me and my sally
Along the loom of the land” —Nick Cave | The Loom Of The Land lyrics
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“I feel a sadness I expected and which comes only from myself. I say I’ve always been sad. That I can see the same sadness in photos of myself when I was small. That today, recognizing it as the sadness I’ve always had, I could almost call it by my own name, it’s so like me.”
—Marguerite Duras, The Lover.
“
I could get it wrong, could think I’m beautiful like women who really are beautiful, like women who are looked at, just because people really do look at me a lot. I know it is not a question of beauty, though, but of something else, for example, yes, something else- mind, for example. What I want to seem I do seem, beautiful too it that’s what people want me to be. Beautiful or pretty, pretty for the family for example, for the family no more than that. I can become anything anyone wants me to be. And believe it. Believe I’m charming too. And when I believe it, and it becomes true for anyone seeing me who wants me to be according to his taste, I know that too. And so I can be deliberately charming even though I’m haunted by the death of my brother […]
I already know a thing or two. I know it’s not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction or costliness of their finery.. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don’t know where. I only know it isn’t where women think. I look at the women in the streets of Saigon, and up-country. Some of them are very beautiful, very white, they take enormous care of their beauty here, especially up-country. They don’t do anything, just save themselves up, save themselves up for Europe, for lovers, holidays in Italy the long six-months’ leaves every three years, when at last they’ll be able to talk about what it’s like here, this peculiar colonial existence, the marvellous domestic service, provided by the houseboys, the vegetation, the dances, the white villas, big enough to get lost in, occupied by officials in distant outposts. They wait, these women. They dress just for the sake of dressing. They look at themselves. In the shade of their villas, they look at themselves for later on, they dream of romance, they already have huge wardrobes full of more dresses than they know what to do with, added together one by one like time, like the long days of waiting. Some of them go mad. Some are deserted for a young maid who keeps her mouth shut. Ditched. You can hear the word hit them, hear the sound of the blow. Some kill themselves.
This self-betrayal of women always struck me as a mistake, an error.
You didn’t have to attract desire. Either it was in the woman who aroused it or it didn’t exist. Either it was there at first glance or else it had never been.
” —Marguerite Duras, The Lover.
“There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skilfully recreate an image in the visual laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: “honey-coloured skin,” “thin arms,” “brown bobbed hair,” “long lashes,” “big bright mouth”); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark inner side of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colours (and this is how I see Lolita).”
—Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita
“You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is “Never get involved in a land war in Asia.” But only slightly less well known is this: “Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.”
—
For David x
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Hole - Northern Star
I wanted to post this last night in the midst of my Aurora Borealis frenzy, but alas, here it is now.
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“THIS AIN’T NO TWO THOUSAND AND NINE,
IT’S TWO THOUSAND AND MINE.” —Overheard at the B&Q in Streatham, London.
IT’S TWO THOUSAND AND MINE.” —Overheard at the B&Q in Streatham, London.
