The Saxon genitive is dying.
To need someone’s love is bad, for both. To love without needing is good, for all.
A woman in her sixties standing well in the middle of a parking lot, guarding it against competing drivers, waiting for her husband to make his driving around the block and park right on the spot,
And an auto repair shop with a wall plastered with calendars of pin-up girls,
Relics of a world that was.
I wonder, is there an end to the talk about how to rinse, cut, sink, brush and comb the curls, perms, braids, buns and ponytails in which my female coworkers passionately engage every time any of them makes the slightest, most unnoticeable to-no-one-except-them modification of her straight, dry, greasy, dyed, iron-curled or whatever scalp they happen to own at the moment? ‘Cos in my office at least it is relentless, incessant, non-stop, formidable.
by Amos Oz. I finished it a few days ago, I liked it, gave it three out of five stars, which is my standard score for unremarkable good books, but I’m finding the book hovering over my head and refusing to go away, which is what happens to me when I happen to read a remarkable good book.
Perhaps it is, with that soft but indelible impression of unavoidable sadness that leaves upon you, about how human life is and cannot help not being sorrow and loss.
To die alone, no one around, no tears, no drama, no notice, not anybody torn by your demise —that’s a good death, in my humble opinion.
I got it fixed.
One of my political heroes was the late South African politician Helen Suzman, for many years the only anti-apartheid member of the (all-white) parliament in Cape Town. As a leader of the opposition party she sat right across from the government, speaking directly to their menacing faces. On one occasion she said to them: “You should really visit one of the townships, to see how blacks live in our country. I suggest that you go disguised as human beings.”
From the always excellent Peter L. Berger.
I used to listen to my songs in random order, but now I go through them alphabetically by name. That has made me notice something remarkable —out of 38 songs in my collection whose name begins with ‘I’, 14 are from The Beatles.
You know them —male, white, middle class, unapologetically heteropatriarchs, and as I can see now, a bunch of egocentric bastards.
As if the world revolted around them, or as if we gave a damn about the pettiness and hollowness of their pathetic partying around for a girl’s kiss in caverns in Liverpool.
The world would be a better place if they had checked back their privileges, assumed their guilt, apologized to the oppressed, pledged them for acceptance and forgiveness, and redeemed themselves by assuming the role of the meek and humble, low-key unconditional background supporter of those whose moment in history has arrived.
And what did they do instead? A batch of silly songs no one wants to hear which should be given absolutely no platform in any college radio station.
Ban’em, here, there, and everywhere.