Monday, 26 September 2011

epershand: Text: "not that we object to mountains as mountains, but we decline to subscribe to the loathsome alpine blague" (loathsome alpine blague)
[personal profile] naraht is doing a series of reviews on e-books, and her most recent one is for Christopher Isherwood's Lions and Shadows, which I am almost certainly going to nominate for Yuletide.

Naraht goes into the beauty of the book; I'll mention here its absurdity. It's an example of that thing that is catnip to me, the self-aware elitist mocking hi own elitism by playing it out to an ironic degree. For example, from the stretch of time when Isherwood worked as a secretary to a well-known violinist:

And not merely was I now a humble member of the enormous musical community ; I had my colleagues, my equals. Over the telephone, at any rate, one secretary was as good as another. We knew each others' names; we said good morning and chatted politely for a few moments before stating our business.

True, I could hardly echo the words of Miss Gibson, of the B.B.C., whose invariable formula was: "I'll just call down to the porter's lodge and find out if Mr. So-and-So's still in the building." But I did try to convey the illusion that Cheuret had to be hunted for through a whole suite of rooms; and, even when he was sitting in the opposite chair, I liked to keep the enquirer waiting for at least a couple of minutes. My particular friend was Mr. Hardy, of the Gramophone Society. We had never me, but our politeness was excessive. Picturing a dynamic middle-aged man seated amidst a sub- servient staff of stenographers, I was, nevertheless, determined not to be outdone. " Very well, Mr. Hardy," I would rattle briskly into the mouthpiece, " I'll have that typed out and sent round to you to-night . . . oh, splendid, thanks . . . Rather busy, you know . . . Yes, certainly, Mr. Hardy; I'll take the matter up with Monsieur Cheuret at once . . . Good morning. ..." Nearly a year later, we met at a concert and were introduced. Mr. Hardy proved to be a mild, agreeable, literary young man of my own age. He told me that he had always supposed me to be forty, at least.
epershand: Foreground: grape on a table. Background: Spencer Smith peeking deviously over the edge of the table. (Spencer/grape OTP)
Drive by post to mention that the rumors you've heard our true--[personal profile] marina's mutation is indeed the ability to transmogrify any space into a purring fangirl cuddle pile.

There have been adventures! [personal profile] marina has narrated them! There was twitter party liveblogging excellence during the XMFC Sobriety Was Never An Option party. [personal profile] kuwdora has consolidated them! I have seen many delightful people who I hadn't met before or hadn't seen in months or even years!

This morning I tiptoed out of a household full of slowly-stirring fangirls and went off to work a shift at my chorus's booze booth at the Folsom Street Fair, where I mixed twelve-gallon jugs of alcohol and snuck off to see TurbonegrA when they turned out to be performing a block away! And then I got to wander around with kuwdora and marina, taking smutty photographs of candy and boggling at the anatomy of others. I also acquired a delightful riding crop, although my rigorous comparison process... might mean that I have to wear long sleeves to work tomorrow >_<.

Tomorrow there will be Neon Trees, step 28339862695 in the clever process by which I intend to lure everyone around me into bandom in general, and the Neon Trees fandom I wish existed in particular. According to stories from Marina, though, I'm not nearly as clever at this as [personal profile] roga is...


epershand: An ampersand (Default)

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