Notes on Literature: *Mother London*
Jeff Rubard
Fleischer. The reasons for this are obvious. The action takes place on
a single day. All the time, baby. Really. "Cope". Consequently — all
manner of *mises en scene* are possible, from "high tea" with
Katharine Hepburn to "reelin' in the years" á Labourite sad sacks; and
yes, the car means she is "easy" in a *hard* way - p'haps you ought to
merely appreciate the *pragmatica* skilfully imployed to give you an
idea of her "solidity".
Serious'l, folx: /implying/ that it is in fact "I" who wrote this
novel, and not one Michael Moorcock of stance obscure on many issues, /
is a-llowed/ on a "grand scan" of the English present; try *rapido*
and see, for London is quite the *anarquista's* paradise and then,
having had every right *amply* vindicated, one begins a slow descent
into oblivion marked by encreased injoyment of pink stationery; people
recognizing fully *what you are about* -- and difficulties *similare*
to those faced by the *schizoide* around-the-world.
[Not pictured:]
Jeff Rubard
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"Mother London" Redux: Time Between You and Me
The central character of this novel is a Pittsburgh Jew named Sam
Fleischer [in my mind, and in a car]. The reasons for this are obvious
[Pittsburgh a London, and Josef Kiss a Portrait of the Arthur as a
"Young"
Dog.] The action takes place on a single day (what you think). All the
time, baby
(South Africans a less helpful guide to this than thought). Really
[big cities
draw big bodies, and a "striving towards the ideological" achieved
through, on
account of, and "by virtue of" this]. "Cope" [Easier. Believe.]
Consequently — {!}
all manner of *mises en scene* (*Seriös*) are possible [!], from "high
tea" with
Katharine Hepburn [/of course/] to "reelin' in the years" (what-ever)
á Labourite
sad sacks [a "dream deferred"]; and yes, the car means she is "easy"
in a
*hard* way (what to say) - p'haps [!] you ought (.) to merely
appreciate
the *pragmatica* /skilfully imployed/ to give you an idea of her
"solidity".
[Virtue and character]
Serious'l [Pound], folx (not): /implying/ {C.I. LEWIS!} that it is in
fact "I" who
wrote this novel (as it could well have been - not the usual fare for
John Major
Time), and not one Michael Moorcock of stance obscure on many
issues [or ever; a "Buffalo stance" by name, of which less anon]
/is allow-ed/ on a "grand scan" :{ of the English present :}; try
*rapido* [a
reality "in'tense"] and see, for London is quite the *anarquista's*
(seriousness
with.regard.to this last required over *a long stretch*, popolo)
paradise
[a hell-heaven, if'n you could possibly bee confused; New York stylee
*seit*
1920 or so] and then, having had every right *amply* vindicated, one
begins
a slow descent into oblivion marked by encreased injoyment of pink
stationery
[hmm]; people recognizing fully *what you are about* -- and
difficulties *similare*
to those faced by the *schizoïde* around-the-world.
"Ilya, the Anglosphere -"
[Not pictured:]
More seriously, though, a garnet for Anne. Right, that's right. Hell
you want, anyway.