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So we're getting close to suggesting that camp is both the opposite of cool and a refinement of it. Camp and cool both have an element of not-caring, of disdain for the ordinary. The difference is that cool implies a lack of conscious effort, whereas camp is about putting everything you've got into it. Either you love something too much (much more than it's "worth", so the stereotypical anorak-wearing Doctor Who fan and the Barry Manilow cultist are both manifestations of this, at least to the outside world), or you're given to going over the top. Or you do both at once, in many cases. Both phenomena are examples of people fashioning an identity for themselves, and if you're reading this book then you must know people like that. Cool is not caring, camp is actively defiant. ↗
#cool #doctor-who #identity #love
The taste for books was an early one. As a child he was sometimes found at midnight by a page still reading. They took his taper away, and he bred glow-worms to serve his purpose. They took the glow-worms away, and he almost burnt the house down with a tinder. To put it in a nutshell, leaving the novelist to smooth out the crumpled silk and all its implications, he was a nobleman afflicted with a love of literature. Many people of his time, still more of his rank, escaped the infection and were thus free to run or ride or make love at their own sweet will. But some were early infected by a germ said to be bred of the pollen of the asphodel and to be blown out of Greece and Italy, which was of so deadly a nature that it would shake the hand as it was raised to strike, and cloud the eye as it sought its prey, and make the tongue stammer as it declared its love. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality, so that Orlando, to whom fortune had given every gift--plate, linen, houses, men-servants, carpets, beds in profusion--had only to open a book for the whole vast accumulation to turn to mist. The nine acres of stone which were his house vanished; one hundred and fifty indoor servants disappeared; his eighty riding horses became invisible; it would take too long to count the carpets, sofas, trappings, china, plate, cruets, chafing dishes and other movables often of beaten gold, which evaporated like so much sea mist under the miasma. So it was, and Orlando would sit by himself, reading, a naked man. ↗
They set off through the soft lingering light. One cuckoo in the depths of Layer Wood and one in the dense shrubbery of the Dower House were keeping up their eternal question and answer, and in the comparative coolness which had come with the evening all the scents of summer had magnified." Norah Lofts ↗
My honey child, them housing projects Cannot contain her multitudes A sunbeam, hard upon her Just a fly strugglin’ through her braid loops Watch me prove to ‘em I’m more than nothin’ But a ragamuffin with homesick eyes Yes, when it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me My love, she is a drummer Than industrial steel, her backbone tougher The eloping night and the honey moon that trails Just dirt ‘neath her finger nails I’ll be down on them crossroads ‘Til daybreak winks a bright eye And if it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me She’s heard all the right things And they did not persuade her She has no use for your words What she wants is your labor ‘Cause when gringos speak of minorities They tend to keep their voices low Ah, but when that gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me ↗
#bravado #love #poverty #station #valentine-xavier-bronzeville
പുറത്തിത്രയും മമതകള് മുഴുവന് ആടയാഭരണങ്ങളും അണിഞ്ഞ് കൈകൊട്ടി വിളിച്ചിട്ടും നിങ്ങളുടെ ഉറ്റവര് എന്തുകൊണ്ട് വീട് വിട്ടിറങ്ങി പോകുന്നില്ല , എന്തുകൊണ്ട് നിങ്ങളുടെ കൗമാരകാരനായ മകന് മദ്യപിക്കുന്നില ല് ,പെണ്കുട്ടി പ്രണയത്തിന്റെ മായ പങ്കാളിയെ ചുറ്റിപിടിച്ചു പുലരിയോളം നൃത്തം ചവിട്ടുന്നില്ല ,പുറത്തേക്ക് പോകാന് ഉയര്ത്തിയ പാദങ്ങള് ഒരു നിലവിളിയോടെ താഴ്ത്തി അവര്ട് ഉള്ളിലേക്ക് ഓടിപോയതെന്തുകൊണ്. രണ്ടു പേര്ക്കിടയില് സംഭവിച്ചതതാണ് , ശരിയായ രണ്ടു പേര് തെറ്റായ ഒരു കാലത്തില് കണ്ടു മുട്ടുകയെന്നു പറയുന്നതുപോലെ .ആരോ ചിലര് കുറുകെ കടക്കാനുള്ള വൈമുഖ്യം കൊണ്ട് അവര് അങ്ങനെ നിന്ന് പോയതാണ് .അങ്ങനെതന്നെയായ ിരിന്നോ അതുവേണ്ടിയിരുന്നതെന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ധൈര്യമോന്നുമില്ല. ദൈവമേ, ഈ വാതില് പടികള് എന്തുകൊണ്ടാണ് നീ ഉണ്ടാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നത് ... ? തടി തരങ്ങള് കൊണ്ടല്ല എന്ന് വരുമോ ..? നിങ്ങളുടെ സ്നേഹം ഒരു കടമ്പയായി കുറുകെ കിടക്കുമ്പോള് ആര്ക്കാണ് പുറത്തു കടക്കാനാവുക .. ↗
North Korea is a famine state. In the fields, you can see people picking up loose grains of rice and kernels of corn, gleaning every scrap. They look pinched and exhausted. In the few, dingy restaurants in the city, and even in the few modern hotels, you can read the Pyongyang Times through the soup, or the tea, or the coffee. Morsels of inexplicable fat or gristle are served as 'duck.' One evening I gave in and tried a bowl of dog stew, which at least tasted hearty and spicy—they wouldn't tell me the breed—but then found my appetite crucially diminished by the realization that I hadn't seen a domestic animal, not even the merest cat, in the whole time I was there. ↗
If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. "Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo': Simple Poem I shall make it simple so you understand. Making it simple will make it clear for me. When you have read it, take me by the hand As children do, loving simplicity. This is the simple poem I have made. Tell me you understand. But when you do Don't ask me in return if I have said All that I meant, or whether it is true. ↗
MICHAEL (standing up and stretching) Gosh, Steve. I don't know how to thank you. STEVE (also standing) Hey, don't thank me. It means you haven't got any excuse now not to get back to work. They are facing each other. STEVE is looking into MICHAEL's eyes. MICHAEL (embarrassed) So... STEVE (also slightly awkward) Right. Well, I guess I'd better be... MICHAEL, surprising himself, silently pulls STEVE towards him. He puts a hand on his cheek. STEVE stares at MICHAEL, unable to move. The feeling of MICHAEL's hand on his cheek is like an electric shock. MICHAEL (whispering, hardly audible) I mean it, really... thanks. He leans forward and kisses STEVE on the lips. STEVE puts his arms round MICHAEL's neck and holds him tightly. MICHAEL suddenly ends the kiss and pulls away. He goes to the door, opens it and says, in a clear voice. MICHAEL Goodnight, then, Steve. STEVE (disappointed, hurt) Right... sure. G'night. MICHAEL immediately closes the door loudly, before STEVE has had a chance to leave. MICHAEL puts a finger to his lips. STEVE suddenly understands. He smiles in radiant relief, pure love and joy in his eyes. They embrace. ↗
#so-adorable #sobs-can-i-cry-now #stephen-fry #this-is-just-so-cute-i-just-nope #love
A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses. I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; 'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.' 'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 'But one we must ask if we want any roses.' So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses. 'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?' 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. 'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses. 'A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.' We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses. ↗
