Sunday, December 11, 2005

Adventures in description.

"Not long afterwards, I was strolling along Tenison Road and saw, I swear, a wheezing second- or even third-hand motor belching towards me. Behind its wheel sat a man of impossibly fly-blown and lugubrious appearance; his skin sallow and wrinkled, an unfiltered cigarette in his mouth; his eyes like piss-holes in the snow. Only one detail was required to complete the scene, and at first my disordered senses almost refused to register it. Stuck in the corner of his windscreen was a faint and tattered card that read 'PRESS'. It was yellow all right. It might as well have been stuck in the band of his hat. Christ knows where he had been - perhaps to a bad day at the Newmarket races - but it took little imagination to see where he was bound. And this was not a Giles cartoon but a glimpse of the future I thought I wanted. I cheered up immensely. Cliches and caricatures are there to be overcome, after all. And I had my Orwell books to go back to."
--Christopher Hitchens in The Guardian. How can you deny that?
(via Sully.)


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