Quote
"Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, “Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.” Man bursts into tears. Says, “But doctor… I am Pagliacci.”"

— Watchmen

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"If you think I minded, then you’ve never lived like that, plunged in a dream, when all the faces are masks and only the trees are alive and you can almost see the strings that are pulling the puppets."

— The peculiar horror of Jean Rhys’s Good Morning, Midnight.

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"HAMM
I once knew a madman who thought the end of the world had come. He was a painter—and engraver. I had a great fondness for him. I used to go and see him, in the asylum. I’d take him by the hand drag him to the window. Look! There! All that rising corn! And there! Look! The sails of the herring fleet! All that loveliness!
(Pause.)
He’d snatch away his hand and go back to his corner. Appalled. All he had seen was ashes.
(Pause.)
He alone had been spared.
(Pause.)
Forgotten.
(Pause.)
It appears the case is…was not so…so unusual."

— from Beckett’s Endgame.

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Grabuge

Sybille Bedford's wonderful old Europe novel The Legacy mentions an improbable card game:

Gottlieb and a footman carried in the box; Melanie and Gottlieb settled down to shuffling an improbable number of black cards. Grabuge is a game played by two people with one hundred and twenty-eight packs every single card of which is a spade. It is a kind of giant demon, an immensely elaborate simple game; and it takes an afternoon.

Improbable, and in this telling, most likely exaggerated, but from the web it seems grabuge, the French for mayhem, is a real game, or part of a family of real games, which spread from Latvia in the seventeenth century and were popular in middle Europe at the turn of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It is known by a great many names, and seems to have existed in many forms, but its most common name is rabouge. It is a kind of competitive patience, a bit like the seven-card patience we play today with cards piled on aces or placed on a higher card, but with two or more players competing to play down all their reserve cards first.  Suits aren’t important, so it was often, as above, played with spades and, again as above, rabouge cards sometimes came in a box with many packs, though maybe not 128. There is a picture of a rabouge box here:

http://www.endebrock.de/image-pages/rabouge-box.html

A simple version of the game is still played and is known as spite and malice:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spite_and_Malice

though in the version described there cards can be placed on the discard piles in any order, versions described elsewhere require that a discarded card is lower than the card it is placed on. A more complicated related game, where play does depend on suit, is Russian Bank:

http://www.pagat.com/patience/crapette.html

There are older rule books on the web, here

http://www.endebrock.de/misc/rabouge.html

but they’re in German and typed in Fraktur.

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Tags: oitnb nuns
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All us fuckers knew.

Bishop Eamon Casey disappointed me. I had no reason to respect him: as a secular Protestant the Catholic priesthood should be nothing special to me. I had reason to dislike him personally: at my school’s leaving mass he called me a pagan and meant it in a nasty sort of way. In fact, I did dislike Eamon Casey and, like anyone in Galway, I’d heard rumours, still just rumours, of, whisper it, misbehavior in London. I was still shocked though, disappointed, when I learned about his secret child, his theft and his shoddy behavior towards his family. For a while I even mythologized his story, described it in tragic terms, the public man warring with the private secret; all nonsense, it was nothing more than everyday venality.

I often think of this time before the story broke, the way dislike and the suspicion lived side-by-side with an unthinking respect. In hindsight Eamon Casey’s sins and failings seem minor compared to the other horrors and, perhaps, thinking about his tawdry behavior was a useful gateway towards thinking about what we now know. However, most of all, what I think about is the knowing and unknowing, the special magic of unthinking respect that made us mute.

This is something our attitude to Eamon Casey had in common with our silence about the horrible crimes the church committed. We knew but never thought about what we knew, we knew but never thought about what we knew in the right way, we knew but never thought about what we knew with the part of our brain that makes judgements and identifies and condemns wrongs rather than the part of our brain that gossips and tells jokes. We treated the church with unthinking respect when deep down we knew it deserved investigation and condemnation.

The fact is that we knew; in dark jokes, whispers and gossip, we knew or at least half-knew that the priests were raping children and that the church was protecting paedophile priests, we knew that the brothers were torturing vulnerable people and that the nuns were killing babies through neglect. We didn’t know the details and we could never have imagined, even in part, the extent of the horror, but we knew that we were talking around horrible half-secrets. This is terrible, not the same sort of terrible as the crimes themselves, but terrible nonetheless.

I tried to explain my feeling of communal guilty at the time of the Magdalen Laundry report and people gave out to me; I get that, part of the cynical media strategy of extreme Catholic groups is to diffuse blame away from the church, in their version the church’s crimes are communal crimes or crimes committed by a few bad people: this is simply not right, there were good priests and awful priests and the church was abetted by its client state, but the blame lies with the church and its institutions. Sometimes you have to fight the battle, sometimes to plan the war and, day-by-day it is important not to accidentally collude with Irish Catholicism vocal band of apologists and confuse the charge sheet against the church: it is astonishing that at the end of this grisly litany they seem likely to retain control of their wealth, of their land, of the schools and hospitals and that their heartless views on issues like abortion and equal marriage still hold a sway disproportionate to their support.

But, the fact is that we knew, or half-knew, we permitted the magic of unthinking respect and we sustained a habit of mind, a habit of discourse, that forgot for half our brain what the other half knew. We never thought or spoke properly about what was going on, an internal aphasia that’s the sibling, or perhaps the parent, or perhaps the child, of our inability then to think or speak properly about the Troubles, that other horror. Out of this past mistake comes an obligation, an obligation to remember the church’s monstrous crimes, to ignore everything the church and its apologists say and to err on the side of accusation in contemplating the church’s actions.

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Irish Times review of Quad by Seona MacReamoinn

Connecting the worlds of mathematics, Samuel Beckett and contemporary dance is an intriguing piece called Quad. In it, Pan Pan Theatre and Irish Modern Dance Theatre collaborate with mathematician Conor Haughton to excavate and reimagine the choreographic and mathematical puzzle of Beckett’s work Quad. A blackboard, Beckett scholar Nick Johnson and Haughton’s droll wizardry add to the illumination and experiment. Answer: The permutations are not limitless, and the magic number is five.

In Quad, four dancers in distinctively coloured hoodies walk sequentially and purposefully around the four corners of the spaces, on the edges and in near deliberate collisions on the diagonals. They acknowledge the presence of others in their deft swervings, each with their own identity tags of timing, lighting colour and sound keys.

In Quad 2, a version imagined by Beckett a thousand years on, the colours and sounds are bleached from the piece, the dancers now walking to a slow, internal rhythm, with no physical encounter but with the ritual still in place. In Quin, the show’s playful proposal for perfection, the dancers – helmeted like a group of motorbike couriers – move as if following individual GPS systems. The hexagonal space allows for the maths, but Beckett is right: the ritual is erased, and there is no possibility of human connection.

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elanormcinerney:

Judy Blume | Summer Sisters
the deer in the darkness

elanormcinerney:

Judy Blume | Summer Sisters

the deer in the darkness

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What a great season of The Good Wife!

What a great season of The Good Wife!

Photoset

artinfiction:

The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch (between 1490 and 1510) described in Ada or Ardor: A Family Chronicle by Vladimir Nabokov.

‘If I could write,’ mused Demon, ‘I would describe, in too many words no doubt, how passionately, how incandescently, how incestuously - c’est le mot - art and science meet in an insect, in a thrush, in a thistle of that ducal bosquet. Ada is marrying an outdoor man, but her mind is a closed museum, and she, and dear Lucette, once drew my attention, by a creepy coincidence, to certain details of that other triptych, that tremendous garden of tongue-in-cheek delights, circa 1500, and, namely, to the butterflies in it - a Meadow Brown, female, in the center of the right panel, and a Tortoiseshell in the middle panel, placed there as if settled on a flower - mark the “as if,” for here we have an example of exact knowledge on the part of those two admirable little girls, because they say that actually the wrong side of the bug is shown, it should have been the underside, if seen, as it is, in profile, but Bosch evidently found a wing or two in the corner cobweb of his casement and showed the prettier upper surface in depicting his incorrectly folded insect. I mean I don’t give a hoot for the esoteric meaning, for the myth behind the moth, for the masterpiece-baiter who makes Bosch express some bosh of his time, I’m allergic to allegory and am quite sure he was just enjoying himself by crossbreeding casual fancies just for the fun of the contour and color, and what we have to study, as I was telling your cousins, is the joy of the eye, the feel and taste of the woman-sized strawberry that you embrace with him, or the exquisite surprise of an unusual orifice - but you are not following me, you want me to go, so that you may interrupt her beauty sleep, lucky beast!

[The painting is shown at the top, the copy beneath has white squares to mark the position of the two butterflies. Beneath are the two butterflies, the meadow brown from the right panel followed by the tortoiseshell from the middle along with photos of the butterfly, including, in the case of the tortoiseshell, the actual coloring of the closed butterfly resting on a flower.

The painting is in the Prado, the pictures were taken from, or cut from

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:The_Garden_of_Earthly_Delights_by_Bosch_High_Resolution.jpg

and the butterfly pictures came from

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meadow_Brown

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Small_Tortoiseshell

]