Bit late. Twitter trouble. Apologies for any distress caused. Money-back guarantee applies.
If tears could build a stairway / And memories a lane, / We’d walk right up to heaven / And bring you home again.
“‘Tis glorious misery to be born a man,” generally taken to refer to a hen-pecked husband, is in fact a misquotation of verse by the 17th century Romford and London poet, Francis Quarles, dealing with human mortality.
A populist US senator meets an Italian organ-grinder in Rome in 1859.
Or, How to cook the old lady who swallowed a fly without stooping to cannibalism. Cumulative songs (and monstrous nested stuffing recipes) in Quixote and Estebanillo González, with the grossest video you’ll see today.
Impossible automata for my street organ this holiday season. Featuring Georg Büchner, Ignaz Bruder, German Christmas pyramids, dancing Hasidim, Lieutenant Kijé as you’ve probably never seen it, Le Tigre, and a crustacean.
Iain Sinclair wrote of when “global warming rolls a warm sea [up] the course of the old Hackney Brook.” The flow’s going to be the other way. Let me explain.
Victor Hugo puts on his black cap.
Other doctor-novelists; why musicians can’t write.