One of my linked-tos has died. I used on occasion to read his blog and dip into his La persecució política de la llengua catalana, and I’d take comfort in having found someone substantially more paranoid than me. It’s difficult to imagine him resting in peace.
That’s how Barcelona waterfront dealers in over-priced junk on the waterfront transliterate. I don’t know how long they’ve been doing it or how we can stop them. It is not particularly amusing.
This may just be one of those hateful things people here say about the capital, but someone the other day told me that, in the first part of the C20th, the number of barrel organs per head of population in Madrid far exceeded that in Barcelona. Armando Palacio Valdés’ autobiographical La novela de un novelista…
I’m not sure if presidentmaragall.cat was such a smart choice of domain, with voters apparently keen to kick out the idiots and reelect the thieves. (The blog link seems to have stopped working. This can’t be because the system doesn’t let him post when he’s drunk, because, as we know, he doesn’t have a problem.)
From El llibre de tres (“The book of three”): Tres plers són en aquest món: beure en taverna, jaure en bordell e cagar en prat. Or: Three are the pleasures this world us doth yield: to drink in a tavern, to screw in a brothel, to $hit in a field. The edition currently available of…
El santuario no se rinde, on at 10 at the Filmoteca. Released in 1949, apparently it has the besieged Guardia Civils sing fandangos while they wait for the red notary to desert the French International Brigades and die honourably. The big question: will it be worse than Jean Renoir’s La Marseillaise, seen the other week?
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