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Cake day: November 2nd, 2023

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  • The gross and net result of it is that people who spent most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of each of them and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts who are nearly half people and half bicycles…when a man lets things go so far that he is more than half a bicycle, you will not see him so much because he spends a lot of his time leaning with one elbow on walls or standing propped by one foot at kerbstones.








  • I happen to be reading both Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago and Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being. Wasn’t planned - just the next two on my library TBR list. Dr Z happens at the birth of the Russian revolution, and ULoB is a result of that revolution, with Soviet Russia invading Czechoslovakia. But it’s not just that connection. I keep coming across passages that complement each other. Here’s two with the same theme of (un)inspiring speeches.

    From Doctor Zhivago (Trans. Pevear)

    The greatest success fell to the worst orator, who did not weary his listeners with the necessity of following him. His every word was accompanied by a roar of sympathy. No one regretted that his speech was drowned out by the noise of approval. They hastened to agree with him out of impatience, cried ‘shame’, then suddenly, bored by the monotony of his voice, they all rose to a man and, forgetting about the orator, hat after hat, row after row, thronged down the stairs and poured outside.

    From The Unbearable Lightness of Being

    She kept coming back to the speech Dubcek had given over the radio after his return from Moscow. Although she had completely forgotten what he said, she could still hear his quavering voice.




  • I liked this passage below not so much for its beautiful prose, but for it’s wonderful and profound absurdity.

    Once, to make the point that I should study while I was young and learning came easily, my grandfather had told me about a man he knew when he first came to Kansas, a preacher newly settled there. He said, “That fellow just was not confident of his Hebrew. He’d walk fifteen miles across open country in the dead of winter to settle a point of interpretation. We’d have to thaw him out before he could tell us what it was he had on his mind.” My father laughed, and said, “The strange part is, that may even be true.”

    I posted it with a bunch of other pieces last week titled On Truth.