There was an infinity of firmest fortitude, a determinate, unsurrenderable wilfulness, in the fixed and fearless, forward dedication of that glance. Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye.
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âWhat dâye think of that now, Flask? ainât there a small drop of something queer about that, eh? A white whaleâdid ye mark that, man? Look yeâthereâs something special in the wind. Stand by for it, Flask. Ahab has that thatâs bloody on his mind. But, mum; he comes this way."
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Then, too, if we can see this lamp as looking (whether gazing into the mirror or outward from within the frame), we can also see it as projecting the figure of Lila onto the frameâwithinâaâframe. And we can see the lamp not as looking out at Lila or out at us, but as presenting itselfâthis vision of itselfâto Lila and to us. That is, we can see this lamp not as a viewer like Lila or like ourselves, but as another incarnation of the source of our views and Lilaâs, another incarnation of the sovereign agency represented by the shower head.
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The other day; I downloaded a kindle sample of Alice Munroâs Runaway. The first pages were the eponymous story-- in which Sylvia helps her friend Carla leave on a bus for Toronto, wearing borrowed clothes.
The Kindle sample ends with this bit.
[Slyvia] felt inside the bag, not looking. Something soft. And then she recognized the buttons of the jacket, the silk of the shirt, the belt on the pants.
âJust thought youâd better have them back,â he said. âTheyâre yours, arenât they?â
She tightened her jaw so that her teeth wouldnât chatter. A fearful dryness had attacked her mouth and throat.
âI understood they were yours.â he said softly.
Her tongue moved like a wad of wool. She forced herself to say. âWhereâs Carla?â
which is a really creepy way of ending a storyâ
It was somehat later that I discovered that the kindle had merely excerpted from the complete work-- which ends on a rather different note.
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The Killer is never hunted. I never heard what sort of oil he has. Exception might be taken to the name bestowed upon this whale, on the ground of its indistinctness. For we are all killers, on land and on sea; Bonapartes and Sharks included.
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Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class*, and itâs a bit difficult when the narrative, not to do with elves ot weddings, tries to string a clause through several paragraphs.
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He lived in the world, as the last of the Grisly Bears lived in settled Missouri. And as when Spring and Summer had departed, that wild Logan of the woods, burying himself in the hollow of a tree, lived out the winter there, sucking his own paws; so, in his inclement, howling old age, Ahabâs soul, shut up in the caved trunk of his body, there fed upon the sullen paws of its gloom!
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For the most part, in this tropic whaling life, a sublime uneventfulness invests you; you hear no news; read no gazettes; extras with startling accounts of commonplaces never delude you into unnecessary excitements; you hear of no domestic afflictions; bankrupt securities; fall of stocks; are never troubled with the thought of what you shall have for dinnerâfor all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.
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God damn it. Am I going have read this thing? The endless sea and the things it did to peopleâs brains?
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Itâs a great read but you have to take it in small doses.
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The City
BY C. P. CAVAFY
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND KEELEY
You said: âIâll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where Iâve spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally.â
You wonât find a new country, wonât find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
Youâll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
Youâll always end up in this city. Donât hope for things elsewhere:
thereâs no ship for you, thereâs no road.
Now that youâve wasted your life here, in this small corner,
youâve destroyed it everywhere in the world.
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Last week, I read âMagic for Liarsâ by Sarah Gailey, which was great. Very engaging magical detective noir.
This week:
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OH, is that a NEW NK Jemisin? I need to pick that up, then!
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Itâs good so far, but not gripping in the way Iâve found other books of hers. The start is almost like a superhero comic.
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Magic For Liars is great.
Ohhhh. Wut.
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It looks pretty special.
Also, the covers boasts âSpecial Attraction: Jack the Ripperâs identity ineluctably revealed, once and for allâ!
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Was it Grace Kelly?
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