tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-265972932024-03-13T02:00:32.841+00:00SA4QE - Spreading the Word of Russell HobanThe Slickman A4 Quotation Event :::: Spreading the Words of Russell HobanUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger404125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-45420778605551910062012-03-10T13:00:00.000+00:002012-03-10T13:00:06.604+00:00Ruth Bosch 2012<br />
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<blockquote>
"What I am now is waves and particles, I don't need to walk around, I just go."</blockquote>
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<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Pilgermann</b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
".....still I am of the world, still I have something to say, how could
it be otherwise, nothing comes to an end, the action never stops, it
only changes...."</blockquote>
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<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Pilgermann</b></div>
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I did this in my field, up in the back forty. Buckland, Massachusetts. Or Western Massachusetts.<br />
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<i>In memory of Russell Hoban <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2011/12/russell-hoban-1925-2011.html">1925-2011</a></i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-28420278435698246442012-03-09T12:30:00.001+00:002012-03-09T12:30:51.645+00:00Diana Slickman 2012I found myself without yellow paper this morning. Also without Russ, but I expected that. I had a quote - two, in fact - from <i>The Bat Tattoo</i>. I had selected the book at random, as is my practice on February 4, and as is my practice, opened the book at random to see what volunteered itself to go out into the world. The quotes themselves suggested where they wanted to be left, and I agreed. But I needed the paper! I took the red line downtown and dropped into an art supply store, where I was pleased to note that while fashions may come and go, art students look the same as they always have, or at least the same as they did when I as in school; desperately, uniformly unconventional. I was cheerfully sold a few sheets of yellow paper and a new pen by the art student behind the till, and I went to a coffee shop to prepare the quotes for their journey. I still 4Qate by hand. On one page, I transcribed this:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I always feel good in museums. I like the high ceilings and the acoustics, the footsteps and voices, the silence over and under the footsteps and voices and the individual silences of each thing, all of them different, all of them holding a long departed Now."</blockquote>
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On another paper, this:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"At the corner of Parsons Green Lane I nodded to the two telephone boxes that stood like a pair of lanterns and paused to acknowledge the trees which were still embracing the night. I admire those trees; fashions come and go but the trees still maintain their original identity, their unfashionable mystery. They hold last night's darkness like lovers reluctant to let go....Sometimes I am astonished that there should be buildings built and institutions maintained to string out the brevity of human life over successive generations; trees don't do that, they just hold on to the darkness and accept the light night after night and day after day without pretensions to permanence."</blockquote>
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I added, as is my custom, to each of these a little addendum that went something like this: <br />
<br />
<b>"Russell Hoban, from <i>The Bat Tattoo</i>.</b><br />
<b>February 4th is Russell Hoban's birthday. This paper, and your finding it and reading it, are part of an annual worldwide celebration of the man and his work." </b><br />
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But this year I had to add, <b>"He passed away in December."</b><br />
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I finished my coffee and headed across the street to the <a href="http://www.artic.edu/aic/">Art Institute of Chicago</a>, a formidable stone building on Michigan Avenue, guarded by two bronze lions, full of high ceilings and footfalls and silences. I went to buy a ticket, but the young man behind the counter told me that if I waited 15 minutes, I could get in at a reduced rate, as it would be within an hour of close. That sounded reasonable, so I took myself back outside and headed to a little park one block south. There, carefully spaced in little plots hemmed in by wide gravel paths, were a few trees accepting what light they could in the shadow of Michigan Ave.'s curtain wall of tall buildings. It was a Russ sort of day: gray, breezy, with a hint of damp. I picked a tree at random, at a corner of two paths, and pinned the tree quote to it. It fluttered a little in the breeze, as though shaking itself out to settle into the work of being a quote pinned to a tree. <br />
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Still with time to kill before the hour of reduced admission, I wandered into the Art Institute's book store. Vermeer's pearly girl looked pleadingly out of the covers of two or three books. We regarded one another, acknowledging the lack of Russ in the world. And then I saw a big handsome volume of Edward Hopper paintings standing at attention on a shelf and I knew my work would be done here. I opened the book at random, as is my custom, and found there a picture of a woman in a slip, standing at a window, looking out into the morning light. I put the museum quote next to her and closed the book. <br />
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I took the train back home, without going into the museum.<br />
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Here's to Russ.<br />
Slick<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsr2kuj_WyRk4J784nCHH_x765RIePL0vapGk4uHKrbL_Jmqw1wWYG-Lh_J1pOxy_uYYy0fIWFapXEQpZG_PxiAsUdrWZMCbbpn3TU91MwwwcM3WxhFBbOWP5qTVRLdzSGsAe6A/s1600/the-art-institute-of-chicago.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsr2kuj_WyRk4J784nCHH_x765RIePL0vapGk4uHKrbL_Jmqw1wWYG-Lh_J1pOxy_uYYy0fIWFapXEQpZG_PxiAsUdrWZMCbbpn3TU91MwwwcM3WxhFBbOWP5qTVRLdzSGsAe6A/s1600/the-art-institute-of-chicago.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo borrowed from <a href="http://thetouristattractions.blogspot.com/2012/01/art-institute-of-chicago-famous-tourist.html">this blog</a></td></tr>
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<i>Diana Slickman founded the Slickman A4 Quotation Event (SA4QE) in 2002. </i> <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2001/01/about-sa4qe.html" target="_blank"><i>More info</i></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-79980723762155896972012-03-08T13:00:00.000+00:002012-03-08T13:00:06.735+00:00Richard Cooper 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-Q00u5JFpSR0PgGms4t-L0zu_Qj2k8xgvcvrETD48E-UA-YLMSyxVRNc9emqkat90KITB4IU_xn6R5-htTAwntY6v2YjYlG_Xok4rHjYW-e6HE8Cuwm99hPp8ZQVg1E74Y_Ifw/s1600/iphone+056_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt-Q00u5JFpSR0PgGms4t-L0zu_Qj2k8xgvcvrETD48E-UA-YLMSyxVRNc9emqkat90KITB4IU_xn6R5-htTAwntY6v2YjYlG_Xok4rHjYW-e6HE8Cuwm99hPp8ZQVg1E74Y_Ifw/s1600/iphone+056_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
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SA4QE day 2012 being a Saturday, my two boys were off school, so I thought this a good time to introduce them to the wonders of 4qation. Joe (6) had in fact had <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2006/02/joe-cooper-2006.html">an early introduction</a> to the activity but I doubt he remembered much about it. I sat him and his brother Charlie, 5, down in the front room with some sheets of yellow paper and read them various poems from <i>The Last of the Wallendas </i>to encourage them to choose a poem or a line they liked and write it down. They found the poems a bit difficult to get into however, so I switched to a Hoban they were more familiar with, <i>Trouble on Thunder Mountain. </i>The book is a favourite one at bedtime, the fantastic Quentin Blake illustrations as much a joy as the beautifully-told short story of a small family of dinosaurs uprooted from their mountain home by a nut who wants to replace it with a plastic one. While I read the book Charlie picked out single words and wrote them down, and Joe did a drawing of his favourite part of the story (we won't hold it against him) when the dinosaurs' mountain is blown up by Mr Flatbrain and his team of robots. After I'd finished reading we talked about the story and agreed that having your home blown up and being forcibly relocated was A Bad Thing, and Joe wrote down this:<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"A hi-tech plastic mountain?" said Dad.<br />
"It takes a man named Flatbrain to think of something like that," said Jim.</blockquote>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Trouble on Thunder Mountain</b></div>
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I had discovered earlier that morning that today was also, by a lovely coincidence, <a href="http://nationallibrariesday.org.uk/">National Libraries Day</a>, in which people were being encouraged to visit their local library and get a Message across to the Authorities that our society would be the poorer for the <a href="http://libraries.fromconcentrate.net/">closure of these services</a>. Whether I personally feel that some in the UK's coalition government are akin to Mr Flatbrain, I couldn't possibly comment.<br />
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So with libraries and books very much in mind, we headed off on a very cold and grey afternoon just on the edge of snow into the town centre. Rugby is fortunate in some ways in that its main library building is also a museum and tourist centre, so is probably unlikely to be among those shut by the Flatbrains.<br />
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We went in half an hour before closing time and toured the shelves, picking out books that the boys found interesting, on minerals, stars, Sikhism, the Sahara Desert. I explained the Dewey system and we looked up "cars" in the catalogue and went looking for the relevant shelf number. We looked in the Fiction section for books by Russell Hoban and found a hardback of <i>Angelica Lost and Found.</i> I told them about the painting on the cover and Ruggiero flying on the hippogriff to save Angelica.<br />
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As much as I love the internet, and the boys are very web-literate for their ages, this is simply not something you can do online.<br />
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Suddenly it was nearly closing time, so we hurried into the children's section and found a leaflet holder on the wall in which - after explaining it was not an act of vandalism - I encouraged Joe to secrete his quote:<br />
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Then on the way out I left my own quotes, chosen earlier from <i>The Moment under The Moment</i>, in a good place by the front door (I did actually pop it into the box, which seemed otherwise empty, after taking the photo):<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The people who run the world now were children once. What went wrong? Why do perfectly good children become rotten grown-ups?</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Pan Lives (The Moment under The Moment)</b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In my house of childhood of the mind lives Vol. XVII of the Harvard Classics, the only book in the Five-Foot Shelf much handled; Locke and Hume and Darwin looked as new as the day they were unpacked but Vol. XVII was <i>Folklore and Fable</i>, Andersen and Aesop and the brothers Grimm, and it was in heavy use. Oscar Wilde’s<i> House of Pomegranates</i> and <i>The Arabian Nights</i> live there also. As a child I did much of my reading in the room in our house called the library. It was lined with books in Russian, Yiddish, and English and had a massive oak table. No one else I knew had such a room. I had outdoor reading places as well, and of these my favourite was a big old wild cherry tree where in season I read <i>Robin Hood</i> and ate little sun-warmed black cherries.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>“‘</b><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 15pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><b>I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping…’” (The Moment under The Moment)</b></div>
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We went home just as it started snowing heavily, and I tweeted and Facebooked it all.</div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-4988477967640564772012-03-07T14:10:00.000+00:002012-03-26T15:58:57.960+01:00Bristol Grammar School riff on Kleinzeit<br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/29/Kleinzeit_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/29/Kleinzeit_cover.jpg" width="134" /></a></div>
For SA4QE 2012 <span id="goog_282136588"></span>Roland Clare<span id="goog_282136589"></span>, English teacher and <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/search/label/Roland%20Clare">long-time SA4QE contributor</a>, introduced his Year 8 class to Russell Hoban’s classic 1974 novel <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kleinzeit" target="_blank">Kleinzeit</a> </i>and then gave them five minutes, at the end of the lesson, to write a paragraph inspired by it. These were the results. Enjoy ...<br />
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***<br />
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Kleinzeit had a sudden pain straight down his hypotenuse. He crumpled in pain.<br />
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‘Pah!’ said the man at the desk. But was there a man?<br />
<br />
‘Get on with it.’ Kleinzeit walked through the underground while explaining things to the audience.<br />
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‘Wherever I am, whoever I am, I will get this sudden pain through hypotenuses.<br />
<br />
<i>Jude (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Kleinzeit suddenly jolted out of his seat as a vision of a dark figure popped up in his head. ‘What was it?’ said Kleinzeit. Several people turned their heads at his confused face. He quickly shut his eyes again as he realised what he had done. It was all very embarrassing for him so he started to walk away from the strange people that had looked at him in a very funny way. He had no idea where he was going but he wanted to go somewhere where things respected him. He started to walk towards his house, which was at least a couple of miles away, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest. He passed at a wedding-dress shop and he pictured a dog, wondering helplessly around wearing the bright white dress. It then turned around and said, 'All right mate?' and trotted off.<br />
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<i>Owen (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Kleinzeit walked to the door, and the window said, ‘Why not use me, Kleinzeit?’<br />
<br />
<i>Angus (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Kleinzeit glided along the platform and entered the train. The doors slid shut. The train rumbled along the track. Sparks flickered out. He stumbled along the carriage, holding on to the rail as he went. He eventually found a vacant seat. He glanced at his copy of The Peloponnesian War. ‘Humph,’ he sighed. ‘As if I would read it,’ he thought to himself.<br />
<br />
<i>Milo (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
‘Fine, be like that then,’ said Kleinzeit. ‘See if I care.’ He opened his attaché case and then closed it again. He could see what was not in the case.<br />
‘Oh, but you do care,’ said the bed in the hospital.<br />
The audience reassembled themselves, back into their places<br />
‘What are you doing?’ asked Kleinzeit.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Emma (13) </i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It happened again, from a voice to another voice. It felt like there were lots of people in Kleinzeit talking.<br />
<br />
‘Ha ha ha,’ said the clock, which wasn’t moving its arrows.<br />
<br />
The tables were yawning and the pencils were bent forward, tired.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Syed </i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
‘Why am I here?’ The audience laughed. ‘Am I here?’ Silence struck. He feels alone, where is everyone? The audience in his mind have vanished. ‘Hello.’ There was a laugh, the audience were back, or were they, clapping was due, but again, nothing happened. ‘I’m not here, I’m dead, what do I do?’ He rests his eyes, a face appeared in front of him, he said nothing, nor did the face, but he felt a strange pain to leave this illusion.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas for tomorrow!<br />
<br />
<i>Jonathan </i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Kleinzeit left the office, noticing the Aquafresh sign on Mrs Howard’s door. He walked down the stairs, one, two, three … and so on until the last where he stopped, stooped and inspected a glob of chewing gum on the floor. ‘Hi, it called, would you mind not standing on me?’ ‘Sorry,’ muttered Kleinzeit. Kleinzeit went down in the lift and walked to the underground.<br />
<br />
On the train he looked into the bag of the lady sitting next to him. On the other side of town the hospital bed chuckled, ‘In you come,’ it said, ‘and Sister will sort out that A to B problem.’<br />
<br />
Spent five minutes on this, my Kleinzeit piece. Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Freya (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I woke with a pain. I didn’t want to look. Then I heard it. Sounded like a hum. Then it happened again but this time my mind registered it. ‘Kleinzeit, you have finally come to your senses, well done.’ Then my mind started to wander away and I started to drift into a warm, loving sleep.<br />
<br />
<i>Chris (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
<i>…and began to write a television commercial for Bonzo Toothpaste…</i><br />
<br />
He wasn’t meant to be writing about toothpaste, but he didn’t see why he shouldn’t. The dandruff made it all the harder to read his writing. Just the way I like it, he thought. At exactly 12:15 pm, three men walked into his office. Kleinzeit had been expecting them, but in 37 more seconds. Why can’t people turn up on time? He wondered. The interview was interesting, considering it was about share profits and net profits, and a guessed estimate figure for next year’s employment growth. Actually, Kleinzeit found this boring, especially when the men explained why he would be getting a pay cut. ‘You see, Kermit, we are looking for people who have original ideas, for our razor blade advert, not for Bonzo Toothpaste,’ says the first man. ‘You see Kasper, we think that you can’t quite compare with our sparkling team of interesting people.’ says the second. ‘Again, Kolton, your work doesn’t reflect the company in the light we are expecting.’<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Ada’ora (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Everyone spilled out of the train as if water was being poured out of a jug. How can something look so similar to something else but not be the same as the thing they resemble? Everyone slowly burst out into the bright sunlight. Why is there light and dark, why not one thing? But no there has to be two of everything, not one but two just to confuse everyone. Or is it just me? Do I just stick out like a sore thumb in the crowd?<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Anisha (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
‘Well, have you thought,’ asked Kleinzeit, ‘about the possibility of another me? Or another you? Do you consider me to be me? Or me to be Kleinzeit? Who should I be? ME. A figment of my own imagination? Do I exist…the mirror does not care…I take it, you do not care either…perhaps, I do not care myself. Is it my decision…whether I care, or is it Kleinzeit’s?’<br />
<br />
Some phrases I thought I could include somewhere:<br />
‘Sister? Whose sister? Mine?’<br />
‘I see through my heart, not my eyes. I speak through my heart, not my mind.’.<br />
<br />
<i>Shazaan (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
He got up. The train was grinding to a halt. People from all directions were packing up their newspapers, which they had had on the table, but hadn’t even looked at. ‘Ha ha, keep on coming,’ laughed the hospital bed, ‘It’s not long now, only a matter of time.’<br />
<br />
‘Until what?’ said Kleinzeit.<br />
<br />
‘All in a matter of time, don’t you worry. And when it comes you may not know for you are blinded by your own existence.’<br />
<br />
‘Push off,’ said Kleinzeit.<br />
<br />
<i>Eddie (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
As he closed his eyes a vision swam into view, a wheel of fortune that said ‘Who are you?’ It showed types of people, from socialist to communist. I wonder who I am, thought Kleinzeit. Dr Pink came on stage and said, ‘And our next contestant is a man called Kleinzeit!’ Kleinzeit shuffled on stage and walked over to the wheel, which would tell him who he was. He spun it! It revolved very quickly but didn’t slow down … what was happening? He woke up, before staring around him, closing his eyes again.<br />
<br />
<i>Benny (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
People flowed his way, crashing into him as if he wasn’t there. Was he there? If people saw him they would try and avoid him. They would, wouldn’t they? If he was there they would say, ‘Sorry mate’ or ‘pardon me’. But they didn’t … they just pushed past, knocked him off his feet and dived into the bright city above.<br />
<br />
‘Come on. Come to me.’ said the hospital bed. ‘If that mean man rushing to get away hurt you I’m sure Sister and her nurses can help. They can let you rest and they won’t disturb you unless necessary. You can eat what you want and everyone will make sure you’re … okay.’<br />
<br />
He took one step forward and then one step back, before carrying on up into the city above.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas!<br />
<br />
<i>Laura (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The bed laughed again. Kleinzeit felt he wanted to go to it, but not to go. ‘You know you want to. The oxygen tanks are ready and the charts are up to be scribbled on. A to B, A to B all the time,’ hummed the hospital bed.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas from Bristol<br />
<br />
<i>Jamie (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I opened my eyes. A sharp pain flashed through my body. What was it? I tried to get up but the pain was too great. I did not know if it was a serious problem to do with my internal organs or just a tweaked muscle in my back.<br />
<br />
<i>Tom (13)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
‘Push off,’ said Kleinzeit, as he walked away from the empty mirror and went to his job. He was walking through the underground, hiding his face, and then walked on to one of the trains. He had an attaché case in one hand and in the other under his arm the Thucydides, the Penguin edition of The Peloponnesian War. It was a book he carried around although he had never read it or even started it.<br />
<br />
Happy Russmas tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<i>Patrick (12)</i><br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The webmaster would like to offer huge thanks to the children and Roland for sending these pieces.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-86667267414595236712012-03-06T15:49:00.000+00:002012-03-06T15:49:18.879+00:00Dave Awl 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2HFFhDeX85QAd3aOYls78WHWudqzHi-7jzUCDW53B02R6woMWIMBvHqBj90xjokJGruQ55Sgq683r4BjAc8Q26G8ZUtQkGLO1ys7ghM963_YbaOVBWnVoO-9AatbiDPm7Oh46w/s1600/busseat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR2HFFhDeX85QAd3aOYls78WHWudqzHi-7jzUCDW53B02R6woMWIMBvHqBj90xjokJGruQ55Sgq683r4BjAc8Q26G8ZUtQkGLO1ys7ghM963_YbaOVBWnVoO-9AatbiDPm7Oh46w/s1600/busseat.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
Everyone lives a life that is seen and a life that is unseen. Our dreams are part of our unseen life. We often forget our own dreams and we have no idea whatever of the dreams of others: last night the person next to you in the underground may have ridden naked on a lion or travelled under the sea to the lost city of Atlantis.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
— Russell Hoban (1925-2011)<br />
<i>from his book</i> <b>The Moment Under the Moment</b><br />
In observance of his 87th birthday and the The Slickman A4 Quotation Event (SA4QE)</div>
<br />
The photo is from the <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2004/02/dave-awl-2004.html">2004 edition</a> of the SA4QE, pre-Facebook. (This particular yellow paper was left on the #36 Broadway bus, which is usually just teeming with people who've been riding naked on lions.)<br />
<br />
<i>Also posted to Facebook </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-61878736972242788632012-03-05T14:55:00.000+00:002012-03-10T09:35:45.603+00:00Philip Parrot 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsczMRSP-LmvJzTg7-Y7LMA0NfW41Yr4pzjoVeJ4LxDbP9I0-4MpF_uSupeeHJfAT7OSwR3XUne0iSSJw9nr3khKMqZdh3OyqPJqCq9eAKQgrURgfq7_pkQaTo0aVQfNmD5rAcg/s1600/philip-parrot1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRsczMRSP-LmvJzTg7-Y7LMA0NfW41Yr4pzjoVeJ4LxDbP9I0-4MpF_uSupeeHJfAT7OSwR3XUne0iSSJw9nr3khKMqZdh3OyqPJqCq9eAKQgrURgfq7_pkQaTo0aVQfNmD5rAcg/s1600/philip-parrot1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
And the idea of love? Who told that to the world-child?'<br />
'It didn't have to be told,' said the head. 'This idea arises of itself from that energy of belief that keeps the mountains from exploding and the seas from going up in steam. It's only a kind of cohesion that binds together possibilities that have spun together out of the blackness.'</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>The Medusa Frequency</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
One day Sister Brute said to her mama, 'All I have is tiredness and kicks and bruises.'<br />
'Maybe that is because you have been loving only a hard stone and a kicking dog,' said Mama Brute.<br />
'What else is there to love?' said Sister Brute.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>The Little Brute Family </b>or <b>The Stone Doll of Sister Brute</b> (tbc)</div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I think it's nice that there are all different kinds of lunches and breakfasts and dinners and snacks. I think eating is nice."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Bread and Jam for Frances</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Posted to Facebook</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-47840771606972639992012-03-04T12:08:00.000+00:002012-03-04T12:08:52.749+00:00Michael Neff 2012<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And the odd thing, you see, is that I don't think that's how I really am. I just can't believe that I'm this muddy thing crawling about in the muck. I don't feel as if I am. I simply can't tell you how I feel inside! Clean and bright and beautiful--like a song in the sunlight, like a sigh in the summer air."</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>The Mouse and His Child</b></div>
<br />
<i>Michael Neff is a bartender and cocktail expert who wrote an <a href="http://drinks.seriouseats.com/2011/12/from-behind-the-bar-on-the-holiday-season-bartenders.html">article in Serious Eats</a> in December reflecting on Russell Hoban and his love for this book. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-83954249855303010372012-03-03T14:27:00.000+00:002012-03-05T15:45:59.576+00:00Malgorzata Snigurowicz 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNwxpNgEmBfavI68eWvxNlBqMpFw5KkxnI5e0wMUM9C4CLXEEqNXlnb2moMwlfHeQjLQmkgGeu9uZ2tFMf7EyXawPtYovkqSfWCE5iDxIiyWWZXJxZcZuDl_W_gxAW9urTQmjfg/s1600/PKiN2_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQNwxpNgEmBfavI68eWvxNlBqMpFw5KkxnI5e0wMUM9C4CLXEEqNXlnb2moMwlfHeQjLQmkgGeu9uZ2tFMf7EyXawPtYovkqSfWCE5iDxIiyWWZXJxZcZuDl_W_gxAW9urTQmjfg/s1600/PKiN2_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
The above location was outside the Pałac Kultury i Nauki [<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palace_of_Culture_and_Science,_Warsaw">Palace of Culture and Science</a>]:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There must be a lot of people in the world being wondered about by people who don't see them anymore. </blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Turtle Diary</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjW-Fs-MIp0nRCuXXvNUWeqkJXBvh5jLWWjazOpF7-WGRq0k9IfQdZknB8wv_I_hQXOO3zAvF1KR8cwTKq6AEbZAmFCw6GMpsbsgTaEtk9jNHRqQ1kfoEIDc_vGAi3llaWUSmGA/s1600/PKiN4_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRjW-Fs-MIp0nRCuXXvNUWeqkJXBvh5jLWWjazOpF7-WGRq0k9IfQdZknB8wv_I_hQXOO3zAvF1KR8cwTKq6AEbZAmFCw6GMpsbsgTaEtk9jNHRqQ1kfoEIDc_vGAi3llaWUSmGA/s1600/PKiN4_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
This piece was left in the Warsaw underground:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kwWddpGSxQaX5hpWglgZNIw_sD1oEf5n1dqEb7YiOZt4l2_SY1Lw95QnjBcgmisjCDY31jVTbESYds6mqTd8Q3FGRsUO4u4nHfw8JkXfsKGi_aH4fmvZf25vX0NP6sM-zsju9g/s1600/underground1_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8kwWddpGSxQaX5hpWglgZNIw_sD1oEf5n1dqEb7YiOZt4l2_SY1Lw95QnjBcgmisjCDY31jVTbESYds6mqTd8Q3FGRsUO4u4nHfw8JkXfsKGi_aH4fmvZf25vX0NP6sM-zsju9g/s1600/underground1_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I said, "Yes it mus be hard for you with no eyes, you can't even see what youre going in to." He said, "No 1 can. Onlyes diffrents is them with eyes they think they can."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
The third one was on a telephone booth at ul. Foksal [Foksal Street]. By the way, the street was originally named after Vauxhall in London - isn't that a coincidence? </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEn6LAUcAt84qg4zpX4QH72UJWeY8_2NMYonXJhW6B6H0FOOKdo8RslLLasbJleVMXom9TylxbaK9-18THKKRtLIGokcNBlS4zTIjdHpQQ91TNWFHi0MCMCtnCrf6D3xZMQYTpkw/s1600/phonebooth1_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEn6LAUcAt84qg4zpX4QH72UJWeY8_2NMYonXJhW6B6H0FOOKdo8RslLLasbJleVMXom9TylxbaK9-18THKKRtLIGokcNBlS4zTIjdHpQQ91TNWFHi0MCMCtnCrf6D3xZMQYTpkw/s1600/phonebooth1_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<blockquote>
Some times theres mor in the emty paper nor there is when you get the writing down on it. You try to word the big things and they tern ther backs on you.<i> </i></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b></b><br />
<br />
All the photos were taken in Warsaw, though I don't live there, I was
just visiting a friend. In return, she gave me a dog she had found a
week earlier. Now that I think about it I should've named him Russell
or Riddley - it's all somehow connected in my head. It was freezing
cold, so running around the town with yellow paper was somehow extreme,
but I couldn't give up!<br />
<br />
The slips were spread
around Warsaw, but it's Opole where I'm from and where the whole idea of
taking part came into being (also where RH's books were read).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gEttc_PVIgUs-ADlw6ey3mYeuxRhquEqVUZN26RMV3aqTPxESYlU5NVOfWmK9IvJkMfqyoWozqZVja7XRe5pC4Tj_kSDxYoLXF6T-UEjNOBhLcs-OaBsPKMPkggf18Nzr4r46w/s1600/phonebooth3_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5gEttc_PVIgUs-ADlw6ey3mYeuxRhquEqVUZN26RMV3aqTPxESYlU5NVOfWmK9IvJkMfqyoWozqZVja7XRe5pC4Tj_kSDxYoLXF6T-UEjNOBhLcs-OaBsPKMPkggf18Nzr4r46w/s1600/phonebooth3_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<i>Also posted to Facebook</i></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-1184545798178164942012-03-02T14:29:00.000+00:002012-09-06T07:34:13.933+01:00Margaret Fulton 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKo3dJZTHRU5ksAlTGnf8jqjHcv9vx22a9RFF3SqLSwBZ-9isNCLYmslvyjE_zuDDnVm8oyFX_S0gIvI4T3x-AbsfDySvGDvgDRcwRqxKx8dUWz-pTOkSw-6FcFg5uGIlJBLAsZA/s1600/margaretfulton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKo3dJZTHRU5ksAlTGnf8jqjHcv9vx22a9RFF3SqLSwBZ-9isNCLYmslvyjE_zuDDnVm8oyFX_S0gIvI4T3x-AbsfDySvGDvgDRcwRqxKx8dUWz-pTOkSw-6FcFg5uGIlJBLAsZA/s1600/margaretfulton.jpg" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
Then came the River Bend Nightmare, all of them wearing silvery, spangled costumes. They played a song called River Bottom Rock, and while they played, the coloured lights were making designs and patterns that jumped and shook like lightning on the walls and ceiling. The music roared and crashed and rattled windows all over town while Mary Jane Chipmunk moaned and hollered and screamed into the microphone. </div>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> - from </i><b>Emmet Otter's Jugband Christmas</b></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I am growing hard," he said, "And bitter. What a waste of me."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>The Marzipan Pig</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The Emmet Otter quote was affixed to the glass wall of the bus shelter near my apartment in Seattle.<br />
<br />
<i><i>Also posted to Facebook</i></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-24850649797202534132012-03-01T14:22:00.000+00:002012-03-01T14:22:04.709+00:00Cathy Gray 2012<blockquote class="tr_bq">
'I never look for my reveal til its ben.' ... Ready to cry ready to dy ready for any thing is how I come to it now. In fear and tremmering only not running a way. In emtyness and ready to be fult. Not to lern no body nothing I cant even lern my oan self all I can do is try not to get in front of whats coming. Jus try to keap out of the way of it. </blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Posted to Facebook</i><b> </b></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-41172477448557952262012-03-01T14:21:00.000+00:002012-03-01T14:21:48.473+00:00Sara Miller Acosta 2012<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I remember being a child out of doors in the dark of summer evenings, winter evenings, late dark and early. One saw perfectly well, it never seemed really dark until I came in the house. Then the night outside the windows would be very black.</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Turtle Diary</b></div>
<br />
<i>Posted to Facebook</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-11399653656235874752012-02-29T13:00:00.000+00:002012-02-29T13:00:17.053+00:00Kathryn Rogers 2012<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Its some kynd of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its looking out thru our eye hoals. May be you dont take no noatis of it only some times. Say you get woak up suddn in the middl of the nite. 1 minim youre a sleap and the nex youre on your feet with a spear in your han. Wel it wernt you put that spear in your han it wer that other thing whats looking out thru your eye hoals. It aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and sheltering how it can.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Riddley Walker</b></div>
<br />
<i>Posted to Facebook</i><br />
<br />
Kathryn's Austin, Texas theatre company <a href="http://troublepuppet.com/Trouble_Puppet/Home.html">Trouble Puppet</a> staged a unique adaptation of<i> Riddley Walker </i>in late 2011. See below for some rehearsal footage. There are also some clips at <a href="http://www.klru.org/artsincontext/">www.klru.org/artsincontext</a><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/2uWX2QQBYBI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-54025252048327874182012-02-28T15:30:00.000+00:002012-02-28T15:30:01.116+00:00peter morrison 2012somewhere along the line, between there and here i think i flickered once or twice too many times. it seems the only logical explanation, the experienced gaps in time that account for the last week, or two...<br />
<br />
i had visitors, so found my distracted, unsure what my plans were for the day of fourqating. which left them with a flickering, unsubstantial/unsubstantiated kind of spontaneity.<br />
<br />
on my recent re-read of fremder, i had noted page numbers in my phone. so minutes before going out the door for the evening, i grabbed phone, yellow paper, and a fremder. and with those three objects i scrawled out, in huge hurried letters, the following two quotes from that novel:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What I like about Badru is that its so much what it is, so much the appearance of itself printed on the very thin membrane that we call reality. On the other side of that membrane is the endless becoming that swallows up years and worlds, Badr al-Budur, Mikhail’s Intergalaktik, even the dream rats and their sacred objects, in the darkness of no remembrance.<br />
<br />
...</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<br />
Being is not a steady state but an occulting one: we are all of us a succession of stillness blurring into motion on the wheel of action, and it is in those spaces of black between the pictures that we find the mystery in which we are never allowed to rest. The flickering of a film interrupts the intolerable continuity of apparent world; subliminally it gives us those in-between spaces of black that we crave. The eye is hungry for this; eagerly it collaborates with the unwinding strip of celluloid that shows it twenty-four stillness per second, making real by an act of retinal attention the here-and-gone, the continual disappearing in which the lover’s kiss, the shots are fired the horses gallop; but bellow the threshold of conscious thought the eye sees and the mind savours the flickering of the black.</blockquote>
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<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Fremder</b><br />
<br /></div>
my brother and i nipped into a book shop, late on in the day, before moving on to the next steps of our insubstantial plan. there i found of books that were on "sale", one piece of yellow paper was thrust into the pages of iain banks' <i>The Steep Approach To Garbadale</i> - which seemed appropriate given he is a scottish writer and these events took place in scotland. (think quick with this logic thing...) the second piece of paper was thrust equally hastily, and sneakily into a copy of ben aaronvitch's <i>Rivers of London</i>. this too seemed appropriate, a curious london novel, for a writer who wrote so much about london. the banks is one of his rare ones i have not actually read, however i would recommend aaronvitch's novel, an enjoyable read.<br />
<br />
anyway, that was my belated qatation.<br />
yours flickeringly.<br />
peterUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-47393470871402448962012-02-27T15:56:00.000+00:002012-02-27T15:56:05.138+00:00Leonard Roberge 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zG_rOPyyxZ9b2keQgFLG-eL_FIybMbKkcbiyWQPJEJnSW0zQM_p9Fb25R9m6oiu2vOdlPA8qMpYjRN8C4BWnnuF07JZTzjuz2uDfPYTbrxTaovy5BM5gix0E5eDXlzMaCrM5UQ/s1600/leonard+roberge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-zG_rOPyyxZ9b2keQgFLG-eL_FIybMbKkcbiyWQPJEJnSW0zQM_p9Fb25R9m6oiu2vOdlPA8qMpYjRN8C4BWnnuF07JZTzjuz2uDfPYTbrxTaovy5BM5gix0E5eDXlzMaCrM5UQ/s640/leonard+roberge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><i>- from</i> <b>Fremder</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="commentBody" data-jsid="text"><i>Posted to Facebook</i><b> </b></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-48992899683610599472012-02-26T15:15:00.000+00:002012-02-26T15:15:04.440+00:00Hirshhorn Museum 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNgTKFsU-nLsNKSOwPDFrDdYk1Ml9DGHWXt6kjoTvZw-6YxzY0gRxdK53VdPKxGLDm1ayPA21HFieVOzh4M3b9NT0nPDBYPWNvpB4qW4LNueBdrxiT7RimauULxOa5ioogIuT2Q/s1600/hirshhorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNgTKFsU-nLsNKSOwPDFrDdYk1Ml9DGHWXt6kjoTvZw-6YxzY0gRxdK53VdPKxGLDm1ayPA21HFieVOzh4M3b9NT0nPDBYPWNvpB4qW4LNueBdrxiT7RimauULxOa5ioogIuT2Q/s1600/hirshhorn.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"15. Owt uv thay 2 peaces uv the Littl Shynin Man the Addom thayr cum shyningnes in wayvs in spredin circels."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b> </div>
<br />
<i>Posted to <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/hirshhorn/statuses/165990413981847552">Twitter</a></i><br />
<br />
The quote tweeted was accompanied by a link to this upcoming exhibition at the <a href="http://hirshhorn.si.edu/">Smithsonian Hirshhorn Museum</a> in Washington, DC: "<i><a href="http://hirshhorn.si.edu/exhibitions/view.asp?key=21&subkey=513">Art and Destruction</a></i> is the first in-depth exploration of the theme of destruction in international contemporary visual culture... This ground-breaking exhibition includes works by a diverse range of international artists working in painting, sculpture, photography, film, installation, and performance. It reaches beyond art to enable a broader understanding of culture and society in the aftermath of World War II, under the looming fear of total annihilation in the atomic age, and up to the present."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-58742766489686355832012-02-25T13:06:00.000+00:002012-02-25T13:06:51.301+00:00Andy Barding 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAxgZzKsGyTGHqbEmjeq5oLXMfZQ3O3cF26QsGViFp6ux1Wxb1WgihVRH9nJlpaT5xC4V4GUpTizKX64-60z2XEPMpThgCQU837RnCSc3njCXTgF-UTXVkba9J04TxMrSsYtt5w/s1600/andy+barding+serpent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAxgZzKsGyTGHqbEmjeq5oLXMfZQ3O3cF26QsGViFp6ux1Wxb1WgihVRH9nJlpaT5xC4V4GUpTizKX64-60z2XEPMpThgCQU837RnCSc3njCXTgF-UTXVkba9J04TxMrSsYtt5w/s1600/andy+barding+serpent.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<i>- from </i><b>The Serpent Tower</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZSkCHQOTcoEiK2JTsgxrf7Wcl96PMbe17ZsOzAglePqe1iut3jDrCqmSMuDdUSLxzDdB0tw85Y-hk_KM3z6LgyWfavwey6K0M9ILjV6NrXsLJvdpZBKcl57Zad0ckDjfpqU0gQ/s1600/andy+barding+barrow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZSkCHQOTcoEiK2JTsgxrf7Wcl96PMbe17ZsOzAglePqe1iut3jDrCqmSMuDdUSLxzDdB0tw85Y-hk_KM3z6LgyWfavwey6K0M9ILjV6NrXsLJvdpZBKcl57Zad0ckDjfpqU0gQ/s400/andy+barding+barrow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>- from </i><b>Kleinzeit</b> </div>
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<i>Posted to Facebook</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-57158241184136401442012-02-24T15:05:00.002+00:002012-02-24T15:05:28.676+00:00Pablo K 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02ECCOYpJ6CFCrOjwG4VNmjWqibMlJNWgfTq6gkJx3i5bseOYK7NAHNjp88rgCRP8biXGEQoxb1aD0usasCqwe04Gq959HwdqwLAETZlsq1OM6IxV8O1DmK-FLTBmNEaO4kRuyA/s1600/pablok1.am" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02ECCOYpJ6CFCrOjwG4VNmjWqibMlJNWgfTq6gkJx3i5bseOYK7NAHNjp88rgCRP8biXGEQoxb1aD0usasCqwe04Gq959HwdqwLAETZlsq1OM6IxV8O1DmK-FLTBmNEaO4kRuyA/s1600/pablok1.am" /></a></div>
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<i>- from </i><b>Pilgermann</b></div>
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outside Goldsmiths, 1am, on their cow bins. </div>
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<i><a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/PabloK/statuses/166937115752546304">Tweeted </a></i></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh02ECCOYpJ6CFCrOjwG4VNmjWqibMlJNWgfTq6gkJx3i5bseOYK7NAHNjp88rgCRP8biXGEQoxb1aD0usasCqwe04Gq959HwdqwLAETZlsq1OM6IxV8O1DmK-FLTBmNEaO4kRuyA/s1600/pablok1.am" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCOy2ZQwf6_jICO2rqQdF9sprf5RUT4CEEgBr3V6LBNKZdCwdw1q4TCBZuThVjEFLTKuI6aFRYrtQf2FcPdylu0WSscETpvkhyphenhypheniC_tDcrvMSOOCEMgW90YyKFaciNS3o5o-xK_w/s1600/pablok2.am" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCOy2ZQwf6_jICO2rqQdF9sprf5RUT4CEEgBr3V6LBNKZdCwdw1q4TCBZuThVjEFLTKuI6aFRYrtQf2FcPdylu0WSscETpvkhyphenhypheniC_tDcrvMSOOCEMgW90YyKFaciNS3o5o-xK_w/s1600/pablok2.am" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I trusted you with the idea of me, and you lost it.</blockquote>
<i>- from </i><b>The Medusa Frequency</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
on the East London line. Not technically A4. So sue me.<br />
<i><a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/PabloK/statuses/166936046544752640">Tweeted </a></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-78463268676404458122012-02-23T12:51:00.001+00:002012-02-23T12:51:31.546+00:00Patrick Gannon 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9pxJ3pfR4cbY3GZJTQSpvdn7-0NzyEXEofS1gNFuxy7t45fvSucW7PjXl-HEBbge_WaQw9PreCo3C0dKEKLtOyC7CU1KfCPmmvTxv67Cv8w6l7GYJtVOgocAy1m9NmkEE-Plbw/s1600/patrickgannon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9pxJ3pfR4cbY3GZJTQSpvdn7-0NzyEXEofS1gNFuxy7t45fvSucW7PjXl-HEBbge_WaQw9PreCo3C0dKEKLtOyC7CU1KfCPmmvTxv67Cv8w6l7GYJtVOgocAy1m9NmkEE-Plbw/s1600/patrickgannon.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I exist, said the mirror."<br />
What about me? said Kleinzeit.<br />
"Not my problem, said the mirror."</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Kleinzeit</b></div>
<br />
<i>Posted to <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/pgann/statuses/165942610253463552">Twitter</a></i><br />
<br />
This was among the most popular quotes as voted for in the <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/p/russell-hoban-reader-survey-2012.html">SA4QE 2012 Russell Hoban Reader Survey</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-68432085315552093302012-02-23T12:51:00.000+00:002012-02-23T12:51:11.271+00:00Mike Smith 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqI8xhOMy8Byt4WZxU6gXEpBH4SczRCemMZyJuVJUGKLul81zAQymLxOsUH2ILTtFzBfMyDX9ebRpJKeXWDiqyLxr25gPLFqccQuMCD4cwcSPbgVrukrTYuYg_pIsm9yP288CeA/s1600/Mike+Smith+tweet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqI8xhOMy8Byt4WZxU6gXEpBH4SczRCemMZyJuVJUGKLul81zAQymLxOsUH2ILTtFzBfMyDX9ebRpJKeXWDiqyLxr25gPLFqccQuMCD4cwcSPbgVrukrTYuYg_pIsm9yP288CeA/s1600/Mike+Smith+tweet.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
A story is what remains when you leave out most of the action.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from</i> <b>Pilgermann</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<i>Posted to <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/blogshank/statuses/165851685024047105">Twitter</a></i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-4905859009324434092012-02-22T12:27:00.000+00:002012-03-10T09:40:29.164+00:00John Hand 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSbDWui_rDF7aFCF1fBrTS-cR5n0h19uFHB85rX7mA11Ns35inDrICdPpzccBJzfL7ABw93jjfpaik_v8vLIMsviskrmTAFjZLFf2Un3QdHh6fr1pWLj971iT5sk-Zyc-MKZTfA/s1600/DSC00916_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSbDWui_rDF7aFCF1fBrTS-cR5n0h19uFHB85rX7mA11Ns35inDrICdPpzccBJzfL7ABw93jjfpaik_v8vLIMsviskrmTAFjZLFf2Un3QdHh6fr1pWLj971iT5sk-Zyc-MKZTfA/s1600/DSC00916_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Hello Gombert & all you weirdos...<br />
<br />
My SA4QE experience this year kinda spiralled out of control wonderfully.... I apologise in advance for the length of this.<br />
<br />
First, I thought the student/hipster/muso/street-art community in Melbourne might appreciate this kind of enlightened vandalism, so I aimed to get a bit of copy on SA4QE in the Arts section of the city's premier street newspaper, <a href="http://www.beat.com.au/">Beat Magazine</a>, with a circulation in excess of 30,000. However, with the help of the irrepressible people behind that publication, it soon became the following full-page spot:<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://www.beat.com.au/arts/slickman-a4-quotation-event" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM7xMCBx1bOmdFjYQZbqG_WQsHYu2IQYcV6cCq1JMDxx1ZHdeDhpXQwLcLT_sKiO4NeqDohFmk2LYLADM11GLiOB38DarU0snSDfxi0_wSkj51_-bp9DQDgf3aUxz9VJF18nUr_w/s1600/beat+mag+screenshot.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I was really chuffed with that, and cannot thank the editors enough for their enthusiasm. The first February edition carried the spot here: <a href="http://www.beat.com.au/arts/slickman-a4-quotation-event">www.beat.com.au/arts/slickman-a4-quotation-event</a><br />
<br />
Then I became a bit anxious... Does that kind of thing violate the spirit of SA4QE - the DIY ethic - the personal passion? So I planned to flagellate myself with something of a personal evangelical broadside on the town: I had 44 4qations to 4qate. (DISCLAIMER: in actuality it was only 11 quotes each 4qated 4 times, so <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2003/02/richard-coopers-hoban-adventure.html">Mr Cooper's one-day record</a> still stands well clear of the pack.) It was a long, excellent day, and the following eleven quotes will stay in my mind forever:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
24 January 2003. I don’t think of my daughters very often. Wherever they are, they have done alright, that I know. Sometimes I think of Elias because there are things I want to tell him. These things he knows maybe, maybe not.<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
Everything is twice itself, this I often think. Things are what they are every day, but then sometimes they are not. Sometimes I see people talking, crossing the road, running to catch a bus. Suddenly it is like TV with the sound turned off and I see that this is really Death dressing himself up as these people talking, crossing the road, running to catch a bus. So that is what is really happening, no?<br />
<br />
...<br />
<br />
But who am I that I should say this? My mind is like a top that spins crazily just before it falls over.</blockquote>
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<i>- from </i><b>Come Dance With Me</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJshjP1Tk9vNqbQaI76yHqlAhxAE1dJeUtCkBHxmiheBXV-ImcnD8uFKZz4Kl_sk0Wue9qUGaCXDCTAktja7YaUiXz47AiKoqUFP5_qWSQc6SbDjtikZ_YB4VPSHfTflZ7pvSUg/s1600/DSC00926_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmJshjP1Tk9vNqbQaI76yHqlAhxAE1dJeUtCkBHxmiheBXV-ImcnD8uFKZz4Kl_sk0Wue9qUGaCXDCTAktja7YaUiXz47AiKoqUFP5_qWSQc6SbDjtikZ_YB4VPSHfTflZ7pvSUg/s1600/DSC00926_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
<blockquote>
Learn the speech of ravens and they will feed you.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
...<br />
<br />
‘Piss off.’<br />
‘Make me.’<br />
The colours of my craziness roared and bellowed in my ears. </blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Fremder</b><br />
<br />
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
‘I’m lost,’ said Klein.<br />
‘In what sense?’ said Dr DeVere.<br />
‘In the sense of I don’t know where I am.’<br />
‘Can you elaborate?’<br />
‘I am of a people who have always been fearless navigators of the mind. The dead sail with us as we make our way from idea to idea, steering by the stars and sea-marks named by those before us. Such a wide, wide ocean! But you always know where you are by the waves, by the swells, by the loomings and the stars. Then one dark night the waves change, and the swells; the winds blow from not the usual quarters. Black squalls come, and heavy seas, the stars are blotted out, the wind moans in the rigging. You suddenly realise that you might never make your landfall, you might drown. A great wave hits the boat and takes you with it, you feel yourself going down, down, down and then you don’t know any more which way is up and you can’t hold your breath a moment longer and the wild wide ocean fills your lungs and then you’re gone: down among the dead men.’<br />
Dr DeVere kept respectfully silent for a few moments. ‘It’s good that you could get that out,’ he said.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Angelica’s Grotto</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZeMLlHlyULjTw4wLt0aZ20uqbfM5Kz8dRJCbg7vdgD1DWjVfYqVsr2bHW76Cwk1C_Z9_a1_DV9nM4V56RYLwbCt-XGKQgE2lmvFbZNqSFmggrqmekaUj6fqbKWtFsgrPVUmvDQ/s1600/DSC00929_lores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZeMLlHlyULjTw4wLt0aZ20uqbfM5Kz8dRJCbg7vdgD1DWjVfYqVsr2bHW76Cwk1C_Z9_a1_DV9nM4V56RYLwbCt-XGKQgE2lmvFbZNqSFmggrqmekaUj6fqbKWtFsgrPVUmvDQ/s1600/DSC00929_lores.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
By their in-your-face humble posture I [Angelica] recognised them as Jehovah’s Witnesses and went to meet them. One was a young woman, the other a middle-aged man. The woman was modestly frumped-up but she was pretty in a way that made me think her name might have been Tiffany or Amber before she went into the witnessing business. The man had painfully sincere horn-rimmed glasses and grey hair.<br />
‘Hello,’ said the woman. ‘My name is Ruth and this is my father Jonathan.’<br />
‘How do you do,’ I said.<br />
We shook hands.<br />
‘We’ve been going around,’ said Ruthany, ‘asking folks how they feel about the world today. Would you say you feel optimistic about it?’<br />
‘Definitely pessimistic,’ I said.<br />
‘Many people tell us that,’ she assured me without placing a hand on my arm, ‘and Scripture gives us an answer in Isaiah, Chapter 65, Verse 17.’ Her fast-draw Bible appeared open in her hands before my reply had cleared the holster.<br />
I read, ‘For, behold, I create new heavens and a new earth: and the former shall not be remembered, nor come into mind.’<br />
‘But that’s imaginative displacement,’ I said, ‘and believing that wishing will make it so. It’s a Ghost Dance!’<br />
‘Say what?’ said Ruthany.<br />
‘Wovoka, the Paiute holy man from Nebraska, in 1888 had a vision during a solar eclipse, and he started the Ghost Dance Religion.’ I read off my computer printout: ‘ “He claimed that the earth would soon perish and then come alive again in a pure, aboriginal state, replete with lush green prairie grass, large buffalo herds and Indian ancestors.”<br />
‘He told the Indians how to earn this new reality, with prayer and meditation and especially dancing “through which one might briefly die and catch a glimpse of the Paradise to come”.<br />
‘The government banned the Ghost Dance, the Indians didn’t stop, so on the morning of 29 December 1890, at Wounded Knee, the soldiers killed a hundred and fifty Indians and wounded fifty, all of them wearing Ghost Shirts to stop the bullets.’ By this time I was crying again.<br />
‘She’s upset,’ said Jonathan to Ruth. ‘We’ll talk about this another time,’ he said to me as I sat there in my Ghost Shirt, weeping by the rivers of Babylon.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Angelica Lost and Found</b><br />
<br />
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</div>
<blockquote>
<br />
‘And what did she ever see in you?’<br />
‘Flickering images.’<br />
<br />
...</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
The idea of a club of people eating lunches was frightening to me.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>The Medusa Frequency</b> <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Time back way way back befor peopl got clevver they had the 1st knowing. They los it when the got the clevverness and now the clevverness is gone as wel.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b><br />
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<br /></div>
<blockquote>
VIRGIN STATUE WEEPS, said the headline at the newsstand outside the station. ‘As well it might,’ said Klein.<br />
...<br />
<br />
Klein thanked her and walked home, still seeing Lucifer in pinks and greys and greens.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
-<i> from </i><b>Angelica’s Grotto</b><br />
<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When she told me that her name was Bertha Strunk I said, ‘Is Bertha’s trunk anything like Pandora’s Box?’<br />
‘That isn’t something you can find out in five minutes,’ she said.</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>My Tango With Barbara Strozzi</b><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
All in all it was a perfectly strange day. My only regret is not catching up with fellow Melburnian 4qaters, KP & MS, but time is a sphere.<br />
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<a href="http://www.thoughtcat.com/Russell_Hoban_FP.pdf">Click to open a PDF of some of John's quotes</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-42129362235053717212012-02-21T13:35:00.000+00:002012-03-10T09:04:35.535+00:00John D 2012<br />
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"What are you?" she said. "A hypnotist?"<br />
"Please forgive my staring, I'm a writer."</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>My Tango With Barbara Strozzi</b></div>
<br />
Left outside Karben Cafe Bar, Portland Road, Worthing and on a bench outside Waitrose, High Street, Worthing <br />
<br />
<i>Also posted to <a href="https://twitter.com/#%21/Dystopia2009/statuses/165855955987341312">Twitter</a></i><br />
<i> </i>
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<br />
It goes like this:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A map is a dead body of where you've been. A map is the unborn child of where you're going. There are no maps. Maps are pictures of what isn't.</blockquote>
<br />
And secondly a quotation from <b>Kleinzeit</b> which I can easily recall without having to look it up. This was left on the seat after watching a play at the <a href="http://www.sheffield.ac.uk/drama">Sheffield University Drama Studio</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I exist," said the mirror.<br />
<br />
"What about me?" said Kleinzeit.<br />
<br />
"Not my problem," said the mirror.</blockquote>
Whilst there I also recommended Russell Hoban to a (I think) German student, along with another of my favourite authors, Angela Carter.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-73916943880674021002012-02-19T11:00:00.000+00:002012-02-19T13:54:00.961+00:00Yvonne Studer 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Today I travelled south to <span class="il">Hergiswil</span>, Canton
Nidwalden, in the Heart of Switzerland and on the shore of
Vierwaldstättersee, where beautiful and artistic glass creations come
from. More precisely, I visited the <a href="http://www.glasi.ch/index.php?id=2&L=1">Glasi <span class="il">Hergiswil</span></a>,
a glass works that used to produce industrial glass (no <a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2003/02/richard-coopers-2003-hoban-adventure_6785.html">Klein bottles</a>!), but is nowadays well known for its beautiful and artistic glass creations. The Glasi has been making anything from plates and vases to works of art ever since the artist Roberto Niederer saved it from bankruptcy in the mid 70s. <br />
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<br />
But the glassblowers haven’t been at work since December, because the oven had to be fitted with new stones and it’s only from tomorrow that a new “Ofenreise” (literally, “journey of the oven”), i.e. a new period of production will start and go on for five to seven years of uninterrupted production.<br />
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Once the oven has cooled down for maintenance, it takes 2 weeks for it to reach the right temperature (1500 degrees C) again after a new fire has been kindled. This happened on 24th January, with the youngest glassblower ringing a bell to indicate the start of a new production cycle.<br /><br />Outside the hall with the oven, there are sculptures, some made of glass, some made of other materials, marking the Glasi as anything but a simple factory. I’m sure that this place, with its magic and art originating in the skill and craftsmanship of the glassblowers from Switzerland and all over Europe would have appealed greatly to Russ.<br /><br />
So I placed a quotation from Russell Hoban's fragment "North" on a glass
brick of one of the objects of art outside the factory. In fact it's the
beginning and the end of the fragment. <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There is a north in the mind where the white wind blows, where the
white ones live. Where the ice bear walks alone, the ice bear swinging
his head on his thick neck that is like a great white snake in the body
of a bear. Where the white wolf comes trotting, trotting on the paths of
the living, the paths of the dead. Where the snowy owl glides in
silence through the twilight. Where the raven speaks its word of black.
The north where one goes in fear, the north that the compass cannot
find, the north that is the cold and implacable truth from which one
doesn't always return.<br />
(...)<br />
You see? says the north. I put on these shapes and I do what I do.<br />
You're far away, I say. I'll never go to the north.<br />
Everything has its north, says the north. I'll come to you."</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
(Russell Hoban, from "North", in The Moment under the Moment, 1992, p. 175-177)</div>
<br />
North in the south, beginnings and endings, our unwillingness to
confront the north, its coming to us if we don't go there, all these
things wanted expression today, on this coldest Russmas day since I
started participating in SA4QE, the Slickman A4 Quotation Event. I was thinking of Russ, grateful that there was someone
like him, sad that he left us last December, but confident that his
ideas will always stay alive.<br />
<br />
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"We're toy mice," said the child. "Is it Miss or Mr. Mudd? Please excuse my asking, but I can't tell by looking at you."<br />
<br />
"Miss," said the little creature. She was something like a misshapen grasshopper, and was as drab and muddy as her name. "I'll be your friend if you'll be mine," she said. "Will you, do you think? I'm so unsure of everything."<br />
<br />
"We'll be your friends," said the child. "We're unsure too, especially about the little dogs."<br />
<br />
"I know," said Miss Mudd. "It's all so difficult. And of course everyone bigger than I tries to eat me, and I'm always busy eating everyone smaller. So there isn't much time to think things out." As she spoke, she flung what looked like an arm out from her face, caught a water flea, and ate it up. "It's so distasteful," she said. "I know it's distasteful. I've got this nasty sort of a huge lip with a joint in it like an elbow, and I catch my food with it. And the odd thing, you see, is that I don't think that's how I really am. I just can't believe that I'm this muddy thing crawling about in the muck. I don't feel as if I am. I simply can't tell you how I feel inside! Clean and bright and beautiful--like a song in the sunlight, like a sigh in the summer air."</blockquote>
<br />
<div align="center">
<i>- from </i><b>The Mouse and His Child</b></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>Posted on Facebook and left in the stacks at <a href="http://www.wavebooks.com/">Title Wave Books, Anchorage</a>, AK </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26597293.post-49704401889769549282012-02-17T13:05:00.000+00:002012-02-17T13:05:21.117+00:00Ra McGuire 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
the worl is ful of things waiting to happen, Thats the meat and boan of it right there. You myt think you can jus go here and there doing nothing. Happening nothing. You cant tho you bleeding cant. You put your self on any road and some thing wil show its self to you.</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>- from </i><b>Riddley Walker</b></div>
<br />
<a href="http://sa4qe.blogspot.com/2011/02/ra-mcguire-2011.html">Last year</a> I put my yellow paper in a plastic enclosure to shield it from the rain, and taped it firmly in place so it wouldn't be caught by the wind and blown away.<br />
<br />
This year was different. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<i>Ra also posted <a href="http://ramcguire.com/2011/12/14/r-i-p-russell-hoban/">some favourite quotes</a> on hearing the news of Russell Hoban's death.</i><b><br /></b>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3