hum

You know that joke, “how do you know when someone has an iPad? Because they tell you”? This adapts very well to the Take That tax avoider. How do you know how Gary Barlow lost five stone? Because he tells you. In precis, he realised, after years of trial and error, “that he doesn’t have the kind of body that allows him to eat whatever he likes” and thereafter, cut out sugar, alcohol, any solids at all after 2pm, and refined carbohydrates. I know! As if he couldn’t get any more charismatic.

Zoe Williams

There are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for the subject’s sake, and those who write for writing’s sake. The first kind have had thoughts or experiences which seem to them worth communicating, while the second kind need money and consequently write for money. They think in order to write […]

Arthur Schopenhauer

So it is that when we are unhappy we sense more acutely the unhappiness of others; rather than dispersing, the emotion becomes focused …

White Nights

‘No, no!’ Nastenska interposed, laughing. ‘It’s not one bit of sound advice I need. What I need is warm, human advice as if you had loved me all your life!’

White Nights

I was walking along and singing, because when I’m happy, I always hum something to myself, like any other happy individual who has neither friends nor close acquaintances, and so no one to share his joy in a moment of gladness.

The sky was so starry and bright, that one glance was enough to make you ask yourself: surely, ill-natured and peevish people can’t possibly exist under a sky like that, can they?

White Nights

The very houses are known to me. When I am walking along, each of them seems to slip out into the street ahead and look at me, all windows, as if to say: ‘Good day; how are you keeping? I’m quite well for my part, praise be, in fact I’m having a new storey added in May.’ Or: ‘How are you? I’m having repairs done tomorrow.’ Or again: ‘I almost burned down, what a fright I got!’ and so on. I have my favourites among them, indeed intimate friends; one of them intends to have treatment from an architect this summer. I’ll make a point of dropping by every day to make sure he doesn’t overdo things, Lord preserve it … I’ll never forget what happened to one ever so pretty rose-pink cottage. It was such a sweet little stone cottage and it looked so benignly at me and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart positively rejoiced whenever I chanced to pass by. Then all of a sudden, last week, as I was walking along the street and glancing over at my friend, I heard a plaintive cry: ‘They’re painting me yellow!’ Villains! Barbarians! They spared nothing, neither column nor cornice, and my friend turned as yellow as a canary. The incident fairly sickened me and ever since then I’ve not felt up to seeing my poor, disfigured friend, now painted the colour of the celestial empire.
So now you understand, dear reader, in what way I am acquainted with all Petersburg.