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Urban spaces have spirits, and cities have souls. Some are dangerous, menacing, but also seductive; others are marked by beauty and excess; others again by their dreariness or spookiness. These are contagious qualities that are said to seep into the character of the people living in such cities. […] Some urban spirits are global in reach, others mainly local or regional. They are reproduced in everyday stereotypes and mythologies. None of these are of course true in any sociological sense but the proliferating fantasmic and mythical qualities of cities and urban spaces are effective realities that shape the behaviour, cosmologies and desires of people in cities, or of those who visit them, imagine them, or describe them in narrative or imagery.
- Urban Charisma, Thomas Blom Hansen and Oskar Verkaaik
We built each other up in fits and starts
Mar. 6th, 2014 05:44 pmMy waiter friend, Laurent, working at the Brasserie Champs du Mars near the Eiffel Tower, one night while serving me Une Grande Beer, explained his life. “I work from ten to twelve hours, sometimes fourteen,” he says, “and then at midnight I go dancing, dancing, dancing until four or five in the morning and go to bed and sleep until ten and then up, up and to work by eleven and another ten or twelve or sometimes fifteen hours of work.”
“How can you do that?” I ask.
“Easily,” he says. “To be asleep is to be dead. It is like death. So we dance, we dance so as not to be dead. We do not want that.”
“How old are you?” I ask, at last. “Twenty-three,” he says. “Ah,” I say and take his elbow gently. “Ah. Twenty-three, is it?”
“Twenty-three,” he says, smiling. “And you?”
“Seventy-six,” I say. “And I do not want to be dead, either. But I am not twenty-three. How can I answer? What do I do?”
“Yes,” says Laurent, still smiling and innocent, “what do you do at three in the morning?”
“Write,” I say, at last.
“Write!” Laurent says, astonished. “Write?”
“So as not to be dead,” I say. “Like you.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling now, myself. “At three in the morning, I write, I write, I write!”
“How can you do that?” I ask.
“Easily,” he says. “To be asleep is to be dead. It is like death. So we dance, we dance so as not to be dead. We do not want that.”
“How old are you?” I ask, at last. “Twenty-three,” he says. “Ah,” I say and take his elbow gently. “Ah. Twenty-three, is it?”
“Twenty-three,” he says, smiling. “And you?”
“Seventy-six,” I say. “And I do not want to be dead, either. But I am not twenty-three. How can I answer? What do I do?”
“Yes,” says Laurent, still smiling and innocent, “what do you do at three in the morning?”
“Write,” I say, at last.
“Write!” Laurent says, astonished. “Write?”
“So as not to be dead,” I say. “Like you.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling now, myself. “At three in the morning, I write, I write, I write!”
The Illustrated Man, Ray Bradbury
Metal clinked as the sapper unstrapped his sword and belt. 'Hate this damned thing,' he muttered.
Whiskeyjack watched as the man tossed the belt and scabbarded shortsword to the rooftop's pebbled surface behind them. 'Just don't forget it like you did last time,' the sergeant said, hiding a grin.
Fiddler winced. 'Make one mistake and nobody lets you forget it."
Whiskeyjack made no reply, though his shoulders shook with laughter.
'Hood's Bones,' Fiddler went on, 'I ain't no fighter. Not like that, anyway. Was born in an alley in Malaz City, learned he stone-cutting trade breaking into barrow up on the plan behind Mock's Hold.' He glanced up at his sergeant. 'You used to be a stone-cutter, too. Just like me. Only I'm no fast learner in soldiering like you was..."
Whiskeyjack watched as the man tossed the belt and scabbarded shortsword to the rooftop's pebbled surface behind them. 'Just don't forget it like you did last time,' the sergeant said, hiding a grin.
Fiddler winced. 'Make one mistake and nobody lets you forget it."
Whiskeyjack made no reply, though his shoulders shook with laughter.
'Hood's Bones,' Fiddler went on, 'I ain't no fighter. Not like that, anyway. Was born in an alley in Malaz City, learned he stone-cutting trade breaking into barrow up on the plan behind Mock's Hold.' He glanced up at his sergeant. 'You used to be a stone-cutter, too. Just like me. Only I'm no fast learner in soldiering like you was..."
- Conversation between Fiddler and Whiskeyjack, Malazan Bk 1: Gardens of the Moon, Steven Erikson
