Musical Life
“He had just about enough intelligence to open his mouth when he wanted to eat, but certainly no more.”
― P.G. Wodehouse
So it's with some new authors that we make new turns in life. A.A. Milne and T.S. Eliot are those sometimes sincere humorists who come in their simpler waistcoats and sit down with us to tell stories that are small and simple. Their humor peaks through slightly, filtering in forests and in lamp-lit streets. G.K. Chesterton walks between two very different sides of the tale and the street lamp mutters as the tree is illuminated by its side. It seems that neither is content with the other, but each have their own peculiarities, their own devices and rich reflections.
P.G. Wodehouse is that which comes in between and sees that indifference and appetite of life, that those lives measured in coffee spoons and daydreams in the countryside are sleepy in the midst of so much color and so much lazy contentment, and that riot of color is found between the fallen leaves and the dust. Winter times that are met with careless drives to nowhere, the joy of guzzling and quenching, of unspoiled dinners and elegance and appearances that are always renewed. That crackling, fizzling life that is music, that has no object but mirth despite life itself, with those brooding Victorian lamps overhead, and those silent untalkative trees in what would otherwise be dark.
Rather dance home in wild defiance, rather have a delicious morsel with company and keep moving from place to place, having adventure upon adventure and finding nostalgia to be just equal to that sleepiness brought on by having a little too much to eat. To understand through bright and jovial existence and being able to see the reverse and upside down of everything; the absurdity of staying the same and the the ridicule that can be found in being a little too different. I suppose it is not too much of a strange thing at all to say that we would be happier with less things and a little more to-do, a little more fuss about the people who are about us, and a little less of that order that causes such intolerable discomfort.
― P.G. Wodehouse
So it's with some new authors that we make new turns in life. A.A. Milne and T.S. Eliot are those sometimes sincere humorists who come in their simpler waistcoats and sit down with us to tell stories that are small and simple. Their humor peaks through slightly, filtering in forests and in lamp-lit streets. G.K. Chesterton walks between two very different sides of the tale and the street lamp mutters as the tree is illuminated by its side. It seems that neither is content with the other, but each have their own peculiarities, their own devices and rich reflections.
P.G. Wodehouse is that which comes in between and sees that indifference and appetite of life, that those lives measured in coffee spoons and daydreams in the countryside are sleepy in the midst of so much color and so much lazy contentment, and that riot of color is found between the fallen leaves and the dust. Winter times that are met with careless drives to nowhere, the joy of guzzling and quenching, of unspoiled dinners and elegance and appearances that are always renewed. That crackling, fizzling life that is music, that has no object but mirth despite life itself, with those brooding Victorian lamps overhead, and those silent untalkative trees in what would otherwise be dark.
Rather dance home in wild defiance, rather have a delicious morsel with company and keep moving from place to place, having adventure upon adventure and finding nostalgia to be just equal to that sleepiness brought on by having a little too much to eat. To understand through bright and jovial existence and being able to see the reverse and upside down of everything; the absurdity of staying the same and the the ridicule that can be found in being a little too different. I suppose it is not too much of a strange thing at all to say that we would be happier with less things and a little more to-do, a little more fuss about the people who are about us, and a little less of that order that causes such intolerable discomfort.
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