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Mon, Nov. 7th, 2005, 08:17 pm
schiarire: (no subject)

* Don't throw Ulysses out of the window as you threaten. Pyrrhus was killed in Argos like that. Also Socrates might be passing in the street.

* There is a difference between a present of a pound of chops and a present of a book like Ulysses. You can acknowledge receipt of the present of a pound of chops by simply nodding gratefully, supposing, that is, that you have your mouth full of as much of the chops as it will conveniently hold, but you cannot do so with a large book on account of the difficulty of fitting it into the mouth.

-- J. Joyce AKA Jim

Sat, Sep. 10th, 2005, 08:48 am
schiarire: (no subject)

Rustum Pasha was known for his toughness and for his nickname, "Abu Jarida." The jarida is the stick of a palm frond, which Rustum Pasha regularly employed as a weapon with which to beat the Bedouin in order to keep them in line. The Bedouin of this era were relentless in their efforts to bribe officials like Rustum Pasha and divert them from his objective of bringing order. According to Palestinian historian Arif el-Arif, whenever a Bedouin chief tried to bribe Rustum Pasha he would bring him into his office and sit him down in a chair. Then the Ottoman governor would take out a red tarboosh. (The tarboosh, sometimes known as a fez, is a brimless, cone-shaped, flat-topped hat, usually made of felt, which was the favored headgear of gentlemen in the eastern Mediterranean, and the symbol of Ottoman rulers.) Rustum Pasha would set the tarboosh on a pedestal and then begin to have a conversation with it in Arabic in front of the Bedouin.

"O tarboosh," Rustum Pasha would say to the red hat. "What do you prefer? Money [fulous] or law and order [namous]?"

Then Rustum Pasha would pause for a moment, and in another voice he would answer for the tarboosh. "I want order," the hat would say. And with that answer Rustum Pasha would lift his jarida branch and whack the Bedouin sitting before him from head to toe.

Thus was order maintained among the tribes of the Negev.

- From Beirut to Jerusalem, Thomas L. Friedman

Sat, Sep. 3rd, 2005, 10:07 pm
schiarire: (no subject)

She sleeps with the door open. The sea spills
into the kitchen where he stands
holding each tomato against the light.
He says: This is a fine tomato, or
this is a bad tomato, Spain is ruined.

-- Catherine Bowman, "Fernando and the Tomato Salad"

Capitalist Poem #7Collapse )

Sun, Aug. 28th, 2005, 09:51 pm
schiarire: (no subject)

When I was a child growing up in Salinas we called San Francisco 'the City.' Of course it was the only city we knew, but I still think of it as the City, and so does everyone else who has ever associated with it. A strange and exclusive word is 'city.' Besides San Francisco, only small sections of London and Rome stay in mind as the City. New Yorkers say they are going to town. Paris has no title but Paris. Mexico City is the Capital.

Once I knew the City very well, spent my attic days there, while others were being a lost generation in Paris. I fledged in San Francisco, climbed its hills, slept in its parks, worked on its docks, marched and shouted in its revolts. In a way I felt I owned the City as much as it owned me.
San Francisco put on a show for me. I saw her across the bay, from the great road that bypasses Sausalito and enters the Golden Gate Bridge. The afternoon sun painted her white and gold -- rising on her hills like a noble city in a happy dream. A city on hills has it over flat-land places. New York makes its own hills with craning buildings, but this gold and white acropolis rising wave on wave against the blue of the Pacific sky was a stunning thing, a painted thing like a picture of a medieval Italian city which can never have existed. I stopped in a parking place to look at her and the necklace bridge over the entrance from the sea that led to her. Over the green higher hills to the south, the evening fog rolled like herds of sheep coming to cote in the golden city. I've never seen her more lovely. When I was a child and we were going to the City, I couldn't sleep for several nights before, out of bursting excitement. She leaves a mark.

-- John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley (In Search of America)

Tue, Aug. 16th, 2005, 05:20 pm
schiarire: (no subject)

Boone: We're the victims of a foul disease called social prejudice, my child. These dear ladies of the Law and Order League are scouring out the dregs of the town. Come on. Be a proud, glorified dreg like me. Take my arm, Madame la Comtesse. The tumbril awaits. To the guillotine!

-- STAGECOACH (1939)

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