all happiness is a kind of innocence

all happiness is is a kind of innocence.

Geoff Dyer writes with a light touch and returning to Anglo-English again reminds you just why you like him so much (his fantastic essay on Idris Khan is featured here, but I have yet to post notes to the Somme book). Music: Nils Molaever, Nusrat, Trane. Do I need to say much more?

Away from that pretentious European dribble and post-modern waffle. Hurrah!

England doesn't have any public spaces, just public houses [C, who said that? Starter for ten]. England doesn't have any intellectuals, either. Or of it does, then they're a very odd breed indeed. England has no eternal friends, only eternal interests. Yeah, it's a bit crap, isn't it!?

~~~

Here I am, surrounded by books. The shelves heave under the weight and sag in the centre (poor craftsmanship by Ubo!). No more in any order. Or, rather, the order is gradually being forgotten so that half a row of books are still conceivably in some sort of category, but are rapidly followed by all sorts of titles arranged haphazardly.

A glimpse, dear readers:

On Flirtation, The World of Knots, Waiting for Godot, The Ascent of Man, Shalimar the Clown, Richard Pryor, Der Gulag, Artistic Theory in Italy, Tulip in the Desert, King of the Castle (2), Alone with the Alone, The Constant Gardener, A History of Islamic Philosophy, The Penguin Complete Sherlock Holmes, Alan Bennett's Untold Stories, and The Ruin of Kasch.

There's an infinite pleasure in thinking of some hidden affinity between these books; in picking one up, checking the typeset, and putting it back on the shelf; even more pleasure (is that mathematically possible, nabs?) in just letting them sit there, knowing they'll never be read, maturing like a good wine. The utter superficiality of possession is intoxicating (we're still talking books here, just in case...). The sheer randomness thrown into order like the infinite city herself. This room, these books, this city...

~~~

Anglo-English.

The strange thing is that you were reading Whitsun and then, later, picked this up and in one of those freakish coincidence quickly realised that Dyer was also talking about Larkin's great poem in the essay. Spooky!

Quick and ancient eyes.

...