Beauty plus pity—that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.
Nabokov
The generator is whirring outside tonight. I say whirring, maybe it is
thumping. Anyway, the generator is a presence, a petrol-induced entity who
keeps t...
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