February 13, 2013

Let's Play...Why's My Bookbag or E-Reader Equivalent So Heavy?



Joe Queenan's One for the Books:
The great books of the world are like a gigantic warning from the Office of the Surgeon General: Attention, readers: Even if you are a hugely successful, highly respected individual—a captain of industry, perhaps even a pillar of the community—this thing is going to end badly.

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by refusing to expose themselves to the music of chance, they have purged all the authentic, nonelectronic magic and mystery from their lives. They have rolled over and surrendered to the machines. This may be convenient, but that’s all it is. All technology is corporate.

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“No place affords a more striking conviction of the vanity of human hopes than a public library,” wrote Samuel Johnson; “for who can see the wall crowded on every side by mighty volumes, the works of laborious meditations and accurate inquiry, now scarcely known but by the catalogue.”

From Moby Dick:
Let it go. Look! see yonder Turkish cheeks of spotted tawn—living, breathing pictures painted by the sun. The Pagan leopards—the unrecking and unworshipping things, that live; and seek, and give no reasons for the torrid life they feel!

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For with little external to constrain us, the innermost necessities in our being, these still drive us on.

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"Drink and pass!" he cried, handing the heavy charged flagon to the nearest seaman. "The crew alone now drink. Round with it, round! Short draughts—long swallows, men; 'tis hot as Satan's hoof. So, so; it goes round excellently. It spiralizes in ye; forks out at the serpent-snapping eye. Well done; almost drained. That way it went, this way it comes. Hand it me—here's a hollow! Men, ye seem the years; so brimming life is gulped and gone. Steward, refill!

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Yonder, by ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun—slow dived from noon—goes down...

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Oh! time was, when as the sunrise nobly spurred me, so the sunset soothed. No more. This lovely light, it lights not me; all loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne'er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low.

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We'll drink to-night with hearts as light, To love, as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim, on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting.

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Oh, boys, don't be sentimental; it's bad for the digestion!

From Chabon's Telegraph Avenue:
A change of state. Molecules in transition, liquid to vapor. A Chinatown dollar-store teacup flying a dragon kite of steam.

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Archy found himself unexpectedly on the verge of tears. That verge was as close to tears as Archy usually allowed himself to come. Regret, hurt, bereavement, loss, to permit the flow of even one tear at the upwelling of such feelings was to imperil ancient root systems and retaining walls. Mudslide and black avalanche would result and drown him.

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Shameless meant you suffered from a case of laziness so profound that you could not be bothered to hide your misbehavior; but it seemed to suggest also that you had nothing to hide, no need to feel any shame.

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You could damn yourself with silence but never so effectively as by running your mouth.

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One of the man’s balls there to question the testimony of the other, both of them doubting what his dick had to say.

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Aviva liked him for his immobility, his effortless parsimony of movement.

2 comments:

Amy Welborn said...

Have you ever read Chabon's wife on Twitter? Lord, she's repulsive... Ayelet Waldman...I can't look away, though...

TS said...

Haven't heard of her before. Must investigate!