"I used to wriggle along in a most unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to side to make way for generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my little scurrying figure. This was a regular martydom, a continual, intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this world, a nasty, disgusting fly - more intelligent, more highly developed, continually making way for everyone, insulted and injured by everyone" (Notes From The Underground)
"… we are friends of the lento, I and my book. I have not been a philologist in vain — perhaps I am one yet: a teacher of slow reading. I even come to write slowly. At present it is not only my habit, but even my taste — a perverted taste, maybe — to write nothing but what will drive to despair every one who is "in a hurry." For philology is that venerable art which exacts from its followers one thing above all — to step to one side, to leave themselves spare moments, to grow silent, to become slow — the leisurely art of the goldsmith applied to language: an art which must carry out slow, fine work, and attains nothing if not lento. For this very reason philology is now more desirable than ever before; for this very reason it is the highest attraction and incitement in an age of "work": that is to say, of haste, of unseemly and immoderate hurry-skurry, which is intent upon "getting things done "at once, even every book, whether old or new. Philology itself, perhaps, will not "get things done" so hurriedly: it teaches how to read well: i.e. slowly, profoundly, attentively, prudently, with inner thoughts, with the mental doors ajar, with delicate fingers and eyes… my patient friends, this book appeals only to perfect readers and philologists: learn to read me well!"
Hello all. I’ve dug my claws in and started a blog. I have nothing interesting to convey and a blog seemed the apposite medium.
Please treat this site as an informal diary and scrapbook. Everything that passes before my eyes and ears will be transferred from my brain to here. It will not be the most compelling read, nor unique: I do not earn money, I do not spend money, I do not get out the house much, I avoid large social occasions with few exceptions, I don’t talk about myself, I’m not well traveled. But I am nominally a writer, and it is my modest ambition to get better at it.
This is early days of bloggery. I will try not to be the sort who diarises about their cats and liberally quotes from Paulo Coelho, but who knows the true extent of the internet’s dark transformative powers? Hopefully, I intend the space for more creative interests - writing, music, art, photography, food - and as a way of keeping in touch with friends. The site is a placeholder and will be designed properly when I find time (which means never).
So thank you for joining me on this exciting journey, doubtlessly towards inevitable recrimination and self-murder.