Note: yes, I know this page is suddenly a disgusting mess. Not my fault - the hoster just went down. I've found another source for the images, and just need time to change the html. Time I do not have at present. Bear with me.
This afternoon was spent at Senate House Library. I keep getting badly distracted by the fellow in front, who is writing an apologetic love letter. He seems nice, and is using some lovely long words, but has just claimed he is typing with a "quailing heart". Should I admit I was snooping and correct him to something, anything else?
My aim in being there was ostensibly to go 1984 location hunting - but secretly to work on my Classics essay. For a love letter to words, George Orwell has an admirably clean way of writing. I suppose this is what Caeser reads like in the original. And yet it gains power because of its simplicity. It's this I love more than anything else in books - universal (usually, miserable) truths, stated perfectly. It's almost poetry. I'm amazed that the imagery in my head is exactly the same as the last time I read it, maybe 7 years previous. Winston's flat is the same - so is Mr Parsons, and the room above the shop. Are the words triggering identical reactions, or are they memories, that have been waiting for me? It's very strange; but stranger are the bits I know are new. When Julia and Winston meet at Martin-in-the-Fields, well I know where that is now; and in my head, O'Brien is now played by Richard Burton. Which he definitely wasn't first time around. Ironic, really, for a book about the mutability of memory.
This afternoon was spent at Senate House Library. I keep getting badly distracted by the fellow in front, who is writing an apologetic love letter. He seems nice, and is using some lovely long words, but has just claimed he is typing with a "quailing heart". Should I admit I was snooping and correct him to something, anything else?
My aim in being there was ostensibly to go 1984 location hunting - but secretly to work on my Classics essay. For a love letter to words, George Orwell has an admirably clean way of writing. I suppose this is what Caeser reads like in the original. And yet it gains power because of its simplicity. It's this I love more than anything else in books - universal (usually, miserable) truths, stated perfectly. It's almost poetry. I'm amazed that the imagery in my head is exactly the same as the last time I read it, maybe 7 years previous. Winston's flat is the same - so is Mr Parsons, and the room above the shop. Are the words triggering identical reactions, or are they memories, that have been waiting for me? It's very strange; but stranger are the bits I know are new. When Julia and Winston meet at Martin-in-the-Fields, well I know where that is now; and in my head, O'Brien is now played by Richard Burton. Which he definitely wasn't first time around. Ironic, really, for a book about the mutability of memory.
Senate House Library was Orwell's inspiration for the Ministry of Truth, where Winston works. I can see why, beautiful building. Hitler was going to make his HQ when he invaded, and it's been used as Gotham architecture in Batman Begins. So after I finished working, I went for a snoop to find Room 101. Yes, Rm 101 is in Miniluv, not Minitru, and yes the room the Room was based on was in a different building altogether. It was still fun though.
I guessed it would be on floor one, got into the lift (ugh - the Disney Tower of Terror has given me the jitters about them. I can still ride them, it's not like it's a disabling phobia, but still ugh) and got out on an empty marble floor. The room was opposite the lift. Locked, and with blacked out windows. The area felt like a set, or maybe a computer game level - a mezzanine above stairs, randomly placed cabinets and columns, completely deserted. I went for a look around, found a gorgeous map, some fine views, an interesting vase. And two Steinway grand pianos.
Mmmmm.
There's something satistfying about flirting with flames, don't you think? Room 101 is meant to be the worst thing in the world. Is there some big, evil masterplan going on? Because ironically, I've just discovered the best thing in the world because of it.
"incaluit vis illa mali, resolutaque flammis
Herculeos abiit late dilapsa per artus.
dum potuit, solita gemitum virtute repressit."
[The power of the poison, strengthened from the fire, slowly coursed through the limbs of Hercules. When he could, he suppressed his groans due to his accustomed heroism.]
The actual imagery of Heracles frying is far more vivid than anything Doctor Who will produce, and we can be thankful for that. Yet for all his heroism, the big H doesn't take it very well crying:
"ergo ego foedantem peregrino templa cruore
Busirin domui? saevoque alimenta parentis
Antaeo eripui? nec me pastoris Hiberi
forma triplex, nec forma triplex tua, Cerbere, movit?
vosne, manus, validi pressistis cornua tauri?
vestrum opus Elis habet, vestrum Stymphalides undae,
Partheniumque nemus?"
[Was it for this I mastered Busirus, who stained his temples with foreign blood? For this that I snatched cruel Antaeo from his sustaining homeland. For this I faced, unflinching, the triple-bodied monsters of the Spanish shepherd, or you Cerberus? Are these not the hands that conquered the horns of the mighty bull? That aided the work of Eli, the waters of Stymphalida, the groves of Parthenium.]
That's the abbreviated version - he goes on far longer, and I'm sorry the translation is ugly but I should really be working instead of blogging.
"hac caelum cervice tuli. defessa iubendo est
saeva Iovis coniunx: ego sum indefessus agendo.
sed nova pestis adest, cui nec virtute resisti
nec telis armisque potest. pulmonibus errat
ignis edax imis, perque omnes pascitur artus."
[I have carried the sky on my back! The savage wife of Jove was tired of ordering me about - because I was tireless in completing her challenges. But now a new threat is here, which no strength can resist, nor weapons or arms ovecome. Gnawing fire plucks the depths of my lungs, feeding on all my limbs]
Heracles does not die, though. He causes his own death by building a pyre (Planet of Fire references?), but the gods rescue him and raise him to the stars. In other words, regeneration. The difference is, the Doctor is sympathetic, whereas Heracles is obnoxious...
And I'm in love with my newest fashion item. Someone got my dad a jewelry making kit (or maybe mum? Memories hazy), but in any case, it was never really used. So dad made a badge with the Star Trek Federation crest on, and because it was an ugly sticky thing, no one ever wore it. This was probably a decadde back. Flash forward to a few days ago, and I stumbled across it accidentally in an old jewelry box. Of course, I didn't see this but this, and am now gleefully wearing it around as a hair-grip. If I'd made a Federation badge all on my own, it'd be a little creepy and sad, but having found one I figure it's OK. And I actually like it more for being repurposed - somehow, it seems suitable. The joke is, of course, entirely intentional - the latter crest being the "far-right" version of the former...
Comments (1)
My "quantitative methods" tutor at the Institute occupied Room 101. It was a subject of great pride that he had the only room number that looked like a binary number.