I bought some new glasses. Although it's not quite there, a partial shave and a double-breasted suit and I could be Gene Hackman as Royal Tenenbaum.
I note that John "Black Hole" Wheeler died recently. I can remember trying to read him many years ago with so-so success as I only seem to be able to maintain my understanding as long as I am reading the book. Once the book is put down...
On Wheeler's Wikipedia entry, I misread Magic Without Magic: John Archibald Wheeler: A collection of essays in horror of his sixtieth birthday. I was working by the White Hart Lane stadium in Tottenham last week, an area steadfastly resisiting gentrification of any sort despite foolhardy attempts to the contrary. Again I misread the hoardings:
Life is about choices: Tottenham High Road is about living hell
Presented by Ajanta. Modern Urban Living. Saturday evening finds me in Trellick Tower, younger sister of Balfron in Poplar. Ernö Goldfinger. Gazing out from the 12th floor, a meeting of transport links against the skyline: Grand Union Canal, Great Western Railway, Hammersmity & City line, Westway. Blimey. I hadn't been inside for about fifteen years. Despite reading about the increased desirablity of the flats, the entrance hall still seemed to be leaching urine. Origins unknown. The flats smelled fine.
Note to self: remember to write about a post about Strasbourg Pie. Does anyone know anything about it? It turns up in verse 16 of Pushkin's Eugene Onegin:
He mounts the sledge, with daylight fading:
"Make way, make way,'' goes up the shout;
His collar in its beaver braiding
Glitters with hoar-frost all about.
He's flown to Talon's, calculating
That there his friend Kavérin's waiting;
He arrives -- the cork goes flying up,
Wine of the Comet fills the cup;
Before him roast beef, red and gory,
And truffles, which have ever been
Youth's choice, the flower of French cuisine:
And pâté, Strasbourg's deathless glory,
Sits with Limburg's vivacious cheese
And ananas, the gold of trees.
I think that translation has some issues. In Russian, the last four lines are:
Французской кухни лучший цвет,
И Страсбурга пирог нетленный
Меж сыром лимбургским живым
И ананасом золотым.
Pirog = pâté?!? Pie or pasty surely. Anyway, let's not start posting about it now...