London 2012: opening ceremony saw all our mad dreams come true

“With reality comes responsibility. Pretty well everyone feels some reservation about the Games – the money, the missiles, the McDonald’s. For me, the issue was Dow’s sponsorship of the stadium wrap. Dow are – to use a value-neutral word – connected to the terrible Bhopal disaster. Whatever the legal position, it was insensitive and tawdry to take their money. This isn’t the place or the day – given the gorgeous experience we’ve been through – to go into the details of why this seemed so very wrong. You can look it up.

Danny set a meeting with Sebastian Coe, who graciously fixed up for Amnesty to speak to Locog’s lawyers. But time was accelerating, and everyone was busy. Besides, something else was happening now: the volunteers.

Back in our studio, we had imagined flying bikes and rocketing chimneys. We never imagined the power of the volunteers. They were creative, courageous, convivial, generous. The press was full of stories of the greed and incompetence of our leaders, but our studio was full of people doing things brilliantly for nothing – for the hell of it, for London, for their country, for each other.”

Frank Cottrell Boyce

vis jnbrssndn

from “Sentences and Paragraphs.” (1931)

“Sentences are made wonderfully one at a time. Who makes them. Nobody can make them because nobody can what ever they do see.

All this makes sentences so clear I know how I like them.

What is a sentence mostly what is a sentence. With them a sentence is with us about us all about us we will be willing with what a sentence is. A sentence is that they cannot be carefully there is a doubt about it.

The great question is can you think a sentence. What is a sentence. He thought a sentence. Who calls him to come which he did.

…What is a sentence. A sentence is a duplicate. An exact duplicate is depreciated. Why is a duplicated sentence not depreciated. Because it is a witness. No witnesses are without value.”

Gertrude Stein

Final line of Ulysses by James Joyce.

“…I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”

 Molly Bloom’s soliloquy

“Pro painting techniques from John Singer Sargent, in a letter to Ben del Castillo, in reference to the painting Madame X, which was incredibly difficult to complete, mostly due to the restless and spoiled subject.”

“The painting is much changed and far more advanced that when you last saw it. One day I was dissatisfied with it and dashed a tone of light rose over the former gloomy background. I turned the painting upside down, retired to the other end of the studio and looked at it under my arm. Vast improvement.”

— via 3liza

james joyce and the hotel porter

[Said Joyce:] ‘A German lady called to see me today. She is a writer and wanted me to give an opinion on her work, but she told me she had already shown it to the porter of the hotel where she stays. So I said to her: “What did your hotel porter think of your work?” She said: “He objected to a scene in my novel where my hero goes out into the forest, finds a locket of the girl he loves, picks it up and kisses it passionately.” “But,” I said, “that seems to me to be a very pleasing and touching incident. What did your hotel porter find wrong with it?” And then she tells me he said: “It’s all right for the hero to find the locket and to pick it up and kiss it, but before he kissed it you should have made him wipe the dirt off it with his coat sleeve.” ‘

I told her,’ said Joyce ‘(and I meant it too), to go back to that hotel porter and always to take his advice. “That man,” I said, “is a critical genius. There is nothing I can tell you that he can’t tell you.” ‘

Frank Budgen (1934)
via ragbag