Do you have the time to listen to me whine?
His new album, “You Are the Quarry” (Sanctuary), demonstrates more than ever that the best lyricist in rock, Morrissey, still surrounds himself with dull musicians incapable of properly filling out his introspective kitchen-sink dramas. Plodding generic rock ‘n’ roll accompanies “Where taxi drivers never stop talking, under slate-gray Victorian sky: Here you’ll find despair and I.” At this level of lyric artistry, these warmed-over arena rock backdrops are a waste. One longs to lock him up for a year with, say, the pop orchestra the High Llamas, so lyrics like “I’ve been dreaming of a time when to be English is not to be baneful, to be standing by the flag not feeling shameful, racist or martial” can be matched by equally thoughtful arrangements.
”It’s so tedious that everyone must be defined,” Morrissey told me when I broached the subject of his sexuality weeks earlier. ”And if you pull away, why is it always assumed that you have a lurking dark secret that you’re hiding in a wine cellar? All of us, ultimately, we’re not that interesting, when it comes down to it. What do we all do? We read a bit. We listen to a bit of classical music. We like one or two stage actors. There’s not really any unreachable depths. So perhaps the less people know, the better.”
El NY Times menciona a Morrissey cada domingo, parece: la primera cita es de la cr
Ya han llegado los finales, tralalalalala
Y estas palabras de un instructor, en respuesta a todas estas inocentes y transparentes tonter
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Far from being writers–founders of their own place, heirs of the paesants of earlier ages now working on the soil of language, diggers of wells and builders of houses–readers are travellers; they move accross lands belonging to someone else, like nomads poaching their way across fields they did not write, despoiling the wealth of Egypt to enjoy it themselves. Writing accumulates, stocks up, resists time by the establishment of a place and multiplies its production through the expansionism of reproduction. Reading takes no measures against the erosion of time (one forgets oneself and also forgets), it does not keep what it acquires, or it does so poorly, and each of the places through which it passez is a repetition of the lost paradise.
Certau, Michel de. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven F. Rendall. Berkeley: U of California P, 1984. p.174. [Citado por Roger Chartier en The Order of Books. Standford, Ca: Standford UP, 1992. p1]
Dan ganas de inventarse cualquier cosa inteligente y escribirla solamente para tener una excusa e incluir este pasaje…
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[135] Aldus (who had trained for academic teaching) was publicly frank about the financial risks the book
trade involved. In the preface to his second venture into the printing of Greek, in 1495, he exhorted his student readers to buy
his edition of the Greek poet Musaeus’s erotic love poem ‘Hero and Leander’: if they did so, he promised to [136] reward them with
further treasure of Greek writing; ‘without a great deal of money, however, I cannot print’. In the same year, Aldus applied to the
Venetian State for a privilege which would prevent anyone else reprinting or importing into Venetian territories any of the books
(in Greek, or translations from Greek) which he was intending to publish. Aldus’ argument for such a privilege (to be held for a
period of twenty years) was the labour, expertise and cost of producing his new Greek typeface ‘of the utmost beauty’, which had
used up ‘a great part of his wealth’, so that he was obliged to recoup the costs over the a significant period of time.[…]
Isabella d’Este, Marchioness of Mantua, complained that the elegant little italic-font volumes Aldus Manutius was printing around
1500 were overpriced for their size, but she bought his printed books nonetheless. [137]Jardine, Lisa. Worldly Goods: A New History of the Renaissance. NY: Norton, 1998. [originalmente 1996]
No se dice si Aldus se sali