“The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface: and why not? any love is natural and beautiful that lies within a person’s nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves, emotional illiterates and those of righteous envy, who, in their agitated concern, mistake so frequently the arrow pointing to heaven for the one that leads to hell.”—Cousin Randolph, Other Voices, Other Rooms (Capote)
"Just to live in the country is a full-time job. You don’t have to do anything. The idle pursuit of making a living is pushed to one side, where it belongs, in favor of living itself, a task of such immediacy, variety, beauty, and excitement that one is powerless to resist its wild embrace."
Which is about BRATTLEBORO. Peter is my friend Willie’s dad, the man who directed me in a youth theater production of the Crucible, a professor at the Governor’s Institute on the Arts, a former commune-dweller, and an accomplished clown, juggler, and mime (half of the world-renowned clowning team Gould & Stearns). He’s also apparently been working on a novel. I’m only about 20 pages in, but I’m already thoroughly charmed, cheesy cover art aside.
Unsurprisingly, there are many other Liz Turners in the world. It follows that some of them would have email addresses similar to mine. I often get emails for a Liz Turner who is a member of some kind of sorority alumnae organization; today, I think, I got an email from a different Liz Turner altogether:
Subject: Squatters and workers unite!
i found an article about the bus strike in spain that i was telling you about.
Tune Yards - Fiya. I’ve been playing this song over and over again for the past week or so (ever since it was posted on Said the Gramophone). You can buy the album by donation by visiting the Tune Yards’ charmingly low-tech website, or by emailing them. I plan to do so after work today.
I gotta say, I think I agree with this guy about the Obama New Yorker cover hullaballoo. Key line:
"Calling on the press to protect the common man from the potential corruptions of satire is a strange, paternalistic assignment for any journalist to give his peers, but that appears to be what The New Yorker's detractors desire. I don't know whether to be crushed by that realization or elated by the notion that one of the most elite journals in the land has faith that Joe Sixpack can figure out a damned picture for himself.”