Disco Quotes

I feel the same way about disco as I do about herpes.

Different elevator music was playing since my last visit-that old disco song "Stayin' Alive." A terrifying image flashed through my mind of Apollo in bell-bottom pants and a slinky silk shirt.

A wise man once said, never discuss philosophy or politics in a disco environment.

I gave the dwarves an arrogant look, like, Yeah, that’s right. I’ve got a talking disco sword and you don’t.

Gregori strutted toward the door. "I'm too sexy for my cape, too sexy for my fangs. Too sexy." He whirled in a circle, then struck a disco pose with a hand pointing at the ceiling. "Too sexy!" He left with a flourish of his cape.

Burn down the disco Hang the blessed D.J. Because the music that they constantly play It says nothing to me about my life

Earth is about to set. Resume 08:00 my time tomorrow morning. Tell family I’m fine. Give crew my best. Tell Commander Lewis disco sucks.

We're still so young and desperate for attention...

Just for the record the weather today is slightly sarcastic, with a good chance of A. indifference and B. disinterest in what the critics say.

You would give John Travolta a run for his money. (Tory) Yeah, and I’m sorry about my clothes. I tried, but I just couldn’t bring myself to wear that. Hell, I couldn’t do the disco look even when it was popular. I swear I’m allergic to polyester. Thank God for the punk movement. Otherwise I’d have been naked for a decade. (Acheron)

It’s like disco inferno up in here

Nix to Declan: Begin transcript— Testing. Hello, hellooo, anybody out there? Check, check, one, two. Soft pee. Puh, puh. Resonance! Sooooooft pee. Alpha bravo disco tango duck. This is Nïx! I’m the Ever-Knowing One, a goddess incandescent, incomparable, and irresistible. But enough about what you think of me. It’s a beautiful day in New Orleans. The wind is out of the east at a steady five knots and clouds look like rabbits … But enough about what you think of me! Now, down to business— Squirrel! Where was I? [Long pause] Why am I in Regin’s car? Bertil, you crawl right back out of that bong this minute! Oh, I remember! I am hereby laying down this track for Magister Declan Chase. If you are a mortal of the recorder peon class, know that Dekko and I go waaaaay back, and he’ll go berserk (snicker snicker) if he doesn’t receive this transmittal. … Chase, riddle me this: what’s beautiful but monstrous, long of tooth but sharp of tooth and soft of mind, and can never ever tell a lie? That’s right. The Enemy of Old can be very useful to you. So use him already. P.S. Your middle name’s about to be spelled r-e-g-r-e-t. And with that, I must bid you adieu. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up very soon. … [Muffled] Who’s mummy’s wittle echolocator? That’s right—you are! —End transcript

Sometimes in life confusion tends to arise and only dialogue of dance seems to make sense.

Life is beautiful and life is stupid. This is, in fact, widely regarded as a universal rule not less inviolable than the Second Law of Thermodynamics, the Uncertainty Principle, and No Post on Sundays. As long as you keep that in mind, and never give more weight to one than the other, the history of the galaxy is a simple tune with lyrics flashed on-screen and a helpful, friendly bouncing disco ball of all-annihilating flames to help you follow along.

smirking between dignified sips of his dignified...peach and lime...daiquri!

Cause it's nine in the afternoon and Your eyes are the size of the moon You could 'cause you can so you do We're feeling so good Just the way that we do When it's nine in the Afternoon

Caution not spirit, let it roam wild; for in that natural state dance embraces divine frequency.

What's with the disco lights?" Michael said, rolling down the window between the driver's compartment and the back. Eve turned around, and her face brightened. "You like it? I thought it looked really cool. I saw it in a movie, you know, in a limo." "It's cool," Michael said, and smiled at her. She smiled back. "Can't wait to lie here and watch it with you." Claire said, "You don't have to wait; it's working now. Look--Oh. Never mind." She blushed, feeling stupid that she hadn't gotten that one in the first second. Eve winked at her.

The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.

Todas as casas onde há livros e quadros e discos são bonitas. E são feias todas as casas, por mais luxuosas, onde faltem essas coisas." ―Eugénio de Andrade

dont take the kid from the fight take the fight from the kid.

But there’s something more important we need to discuss: What is it with you and disco? I can understand the ’70s TV because everyone loves hairy people with huge collars. But disco? Disco!?

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

If you opened the dictionary and searched for the meaning of a Goddess, you would find the reflection of a dancing lady.

Como un disco acabado que gira y gira y gira ya sin música empecinado y mudo y olvidado. Bueno así.

Zombies are the middle children of the otherworldly family. Vampires are the oldest brother who gets to have a room in the attic, all tripped out with a disco ball and shag carpet. Werewolves are the youngest, the babies, always getting pinched and told they're cute. With all that attention stolen away from the middle child Zombie, no wonder she shuffles off grumbling, "Marsha, Marsha, Marsha.

I’ve swapped disco lights for celestial lights but I’m still surrounded by dancers. I am orbited by sixty-seven moons.

Mark, some answers to your earlier questions: No, we will not tell our Botany Team to "Go fuck themselves." [...] The data transfer rate just isn't enough for the size of music files, even in compressed formats. So your request for "Anything, oh god, ANYTHING but Disco" is denied. Enjoy your boogie fever.

He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door. He was so utterly shocked that it took him a moment to run after her. With a meaningful nod in the direction of the astounded Cahills, she barreled down the cobblestone street with her load. "Fermati!" shouted the cashier, scrambling in breathless pursuit. Nellie let a few CDs drop and watched with satisfaction over her shoulder as the clerk stopped to pick them up. The trick would be to keep the chase going just long enough for Amy and Dan to search Disco Volante. Yikes, she reflected suddenly, I'm starting to think like a Cahill.... And if she was nuts enough to hang around this family, it was only going to get worse.

Drug addicts are so funny that way. Just spinning around, lost in their own little world. Doing so much, accomplishing so little. How sad.

O disco tá tocando de novo, já ouvi esse pedaço. - É que ele parece assim todo igual. Que nem chuva.

Hey! Sorry, lady, but nobody's staking anybody at this party! I hung a disco ball for this.

She smiled. "You're looking hot, dude." Gregori strutted toward the door. "I'm too sexy for my cape, too sexy for my fangs. Too sexy." He whirled in a circle, then struck a disco pose with a hand pointing at the ceiling. "Too sexy!" He left with a flourish of his cape. Shanna grinned. "I think he enjoys being a vampire.

If you love me let me go.

We had no desire to live in Istanbul, nor in Paris or New York. Let them have their discos and dollars, their skycrapers and supersonics transports. Let them have their radios and their color TV, hey, we have ours, don't we? But we have something they don't have. Heart. We have heart. Look, look how the light of life seeps into my very heart

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

Whatever dude, just as long as you're ok with carrying this thing out looking like Disco Barbie, it's cool with us.

Dance as the narration of a magical story; that recites on lips, illuminates imaginations and embraces the most sacred depths of souls.

If all our life is but a dream, fantastic posing greed, then I should sink my jewelry to the sea, for diamonds do appear to be just like broken glass to me.

If spirit is the seed, dance is the water of its evolution.

Dance is the timeless interpretation of life.

Life is beautiful and life is stupid. As long as you keep that in mind, and never give more weight to one than the other, the history of the galaxy, the history of a planet, the history of a person is a simple tune with lyrics flashed on-screen and a helpful, friendly bouncing disco ball of glittering, occasionally peaceful light to help you follow along. Cue the music. Cue the dancers. Cue tomorrow.

Getting dumped is never really about getting dumped.' 'What is it about, then?' I ask. 'It's about every rejection you've ever experienced in your entire life. It's about the kids at school who called you names. And the parent who never came back. And the girls who wouldn't dance with you at the disco. And the school girlfriend who wanted to be single when she went to uni. And any criticism at work. When someone says they don't want to be with you, you feel the pain of every single one of those times in life where you felt like you weren't good enough. You live through all of it again.' 'I don't know how to get over it, Mum,' I say. 'At this point I'm so tired of myself. I don't know how to let go of her.' 'You don't let go once. That's your first mistake. You say goodbye over a lifetime. You might not have thought about her for ten years, then you'll hear a song or you'll walk past somewhere you once went together - something will come to the surface that you'd totally forgotten about. And you say another goodbye. You have to be prepared to let go and let go and let go a thousand times.' 'Does it get easier?' 'Much,' she says.

I have pointed rhythmically at the ceiling to the two-four beat of the same disco music I hated pointing at the ceiling to in 1977.

Do you listen to disco?" "I'd rather eat barbed wire.

The tyranny of the living body. Listen -- those cells are at it again. Gossiping. Her veins are singing. Belting out gospel and disco. Amazing Grace. And her tired mind says hush. Enough is enough.

Don't breathe to survive; dance and feel alive.

I just … tell me something true about you.” “I own a pair of bell-bottoms,” he confessed. “And an orange disco shirt.” “I don’t believe you. You must wear it, then, next time I see you.” “I couldn’t,” the Gray Man said, amused. “I’d have to change my name to Mr. Orange.

Disco's are tricky. You look a total wally if you dance too early but after one crucial song tips the disco over, you look a sad saddo if you don't.

Qué estupidez meterme en un lío que pude haber evitado con sólo resistirme a mi imbécil declaración de amor.Todo pasó como pasan los discos en la sinfonola.

The slow cancellation of the future has been accompanied by a deflation of expectations. There can be few who believe that in the coming year a record as great as, say, the Stooges’ Funhouse or Sly Stone’s There’s A Riot Goin’ On will be released. Still less do we expect the kind of ruptures brought about by The Beatles or disco. The feeling of belatedness, of living after the gold rush, is as omnipresent as it is disavowed. Compare the fallow terrain of the current moment with the fecundity of previous periods and you will quickly be accused of ‘nostalgia’. But the reliance of current artists on styles that were established long ago suggests that the current moment is in the grip of a formal nostalgia, of which more shortly. It is not that nothing happened in the period when the slow cancellation of the future set in. On the contrary, those thirty years has been a time of massive, traumatic change. In the UK, the election of Margaret Thatcher had brought to an end the uneasy compromises of the so-called postwar social consensus. Thatcher’s neoliberal programme in politics was reinforced by a transnational restructuring of the capitalist economy. The shift into so-called Post-Fordism – with globalization, ubiquitous computerization and the casualisation of labour – resulted in a complete transformation in the way that work and leisure were organised. In the last ten to fifteen years, meanwhile, the internet and mobile telecommunications technology have altered the texture of everyday experience beyond all recognition. Yet, perhaps because of all this, there’s an increasing sense that culture has lost the ability to grasp and articulate the present. Or it could be that, in one very important sense, there is no present to grasp and articulate anymore.

Life is an affair of mystery; shared with companions of music, dance and poetry.

Mas não quero resposta, quero ficar só. Gosto muito das pessoas mas essa necessidade voraz que às vezes me vem de me libertar de todos. Enriqueço na solidão: fico inteligente, graciosa e não esta feia ressentida que me olha do fundo do espelho. Ouço duzentas e noventa e nove vezes o mesmo disco, lembro poesias, dou piruetas, sonho, invento, abro todos os portões e quando vejo a alegria está instalada em mim.

Dance to inspire, dance to freedom, life is about experiences so dance and let yourself become free.

Through synergy of intellect, artistry and grace came into existence the blessing of a dancer.

We've survived the Black Plague, the Titanic, and Pearl Harbor just to name a few. Not to mention the Disco Period.

DANCE – Defeat All Negativity (via) Creative Expression.

He called me an asshole and said, “I'll bury you!” like some comic book villain. I wanted to fucking scream my head off—I'm not your toy! Your puppet! Your whore! I'm a human goddamn being and I expect to be treated as such! Instead I told him I didn't want to be buried, I want to be cremated. And I want my ashes stored in a disco ball he can hang over his desk.

This Is Gospel For The Fallen Ones

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

There’s a little tagline in there that I throw out to our fans, I like to call them my sinners, and I’m a fellow sinner, and so I think that’s a special little throw-out to them.

Dance is the ritual of immortality.

Come out of that closet, baby, the air’s so bright and disco out here.

Dance is that delicacy of life radiating every particle of our existence with happiness.

...En su casa encontraron discos, cintas de vídeo, un juego de cartas, un ajedrez, en fin, todo lo que estaba prohibido...

Elizabeth studied the blurry tabloid photo, which showed her cousin Mary Stuart leaving a Paris disco at dawn, drunkenly clinging to the arm of a French tennis pro. The message was very clear. Put passion first and you end up neither loved nor respected.

One step, two steps, three steps; like winds of time experience joy of centuries, when movements become revelations of the dance of destinies.

Hey moon, please forget to fall down

I'm suing God, I hate this

There is nothing. Only warm, primordial blackness. Your conscience ferments in it — no larger than a single grain of malt. You don't have to do anything anymore. Ever. Never ever. An inordinate amount of time passes. It is utterly void of struggle. No ex-wives are contained within it [...] The song of death is sweet and endless... But what is this? Somewhere in the sore, bloated *man-meat* around you — a sensation! [...] The limbed and headed machine of pain and undignified suffering is firing up again. It wants to walk the desert. Hurting. Longing. Dancing to disco music.

Non ignora mali, miseris succurrere disco.

and tonight we held each other, one last time, like a dance to a slow song on an empty floor, underneath a single disco ball in front of no one at all

(On disco) I don't consider that a genre as much as a level of hell.

Here he is, the epitome of self-improvement, like I knew a more primitive and lesser form of him. He wasn't a full person then, but now he is complete. Not completed by me, not at all. He's making damn sure I don't accidentally think that. And he smiles at me, the way you'd smile at a stranger, or at someone you know you're never going to see again, awkward but comforting like the encounter was not as unpleasant as it could have been. I want to snatch a hold of his shoulders and ask if he's fucking kidding me. If he's done. Because it seems to me like he is, but he's not allowed to be if I'm not.

Wisps of arctic blue and green and purple buzzed and whirled within those sharp spikes, sending out a wild coruscation of coloured light. The aurora was mesmerizing and blinding at the same time, and little disco balls hoped that they could grow up to be half as brilliant one day.

Sit tight, I'm gonna need you to keep time Come on just snap, snap, snap your fingers for me Good, good now we're making some progress Come on just tap, tap, tap your toes to the beat And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator, and this is just the prologue? Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Applause, applause, no wait wait Dear studio audience, I've an announcement to make: It seems the artists these days are not who you think So we'll pick back up on that on another page And I believe this may call for a proper introduction, and well Don't you see, I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, you swear to listen Swear to shake it up, swear to shake it up Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes, trophy boys, trophy wives Swear to shake it up, if you swear to listen Oh, we're still so young, desperate for attention I aim to be your eyes

Incluso con mis amigas no soy realmente yo misma. En parte soy otra; tratando de encajar, de decir cosas apropiadas, de hacer las cosas requeridas, de estar en el lugar más indicado, de vestir como visten todos. A veces pienso que cada uno trata de ser la sombra de otro; compramos los mismos discos y hacemos como los demás, aunque no nos guste. Los muchachos son como robots, piezas en línea para el montaje, y yo no quiero ser un robot.

Just spinning around, lost in their own little world. Doing so much, accomplishing so little. How sad.

... seis años son suficientes para hacerse muchas preguntas y, si no eres una idiota, para haberles encontrado respuesta a las que la tienen. Las otras, sencillamente hay que borrarlas del disco duro. Lo significativo es saber distinguirlas.

A history of nightlife!--what an interesting concept. A history of a people, told not through their daily travails and successive political upheavals, but via the changes in their nightly celebrations and unwindings. History is, in this telling, accompanied by a bottle of Malbec, some fine Argentine steak, tango music, dancing, and gossip. It unfolds through and alongside illicit activities that take place in the multitude of discos, dance parlors, and clubs. Its direction, the way people live, is determined on half-lit streets, in bars, and in smoky late-night restaurants. This history is inscribed in songs, on menus, via half-remembered conversations, love affairs, drunken fights, and years of drug abuse.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance and not breath.

Cause these words are knives and often leave scars, the fear of falling apart. And truth be told, I never was yours.

El amarillo es un color con el que me identifico en esta etapa de mi vida. En parte tiene que ver con un viaje a México que hice antes incluso de que naciera la idea de grabar este disco. Recorriendo la península de Yucatán tuve algunas visiones de color amarillo, algunos ovnis que creí ver y un ámbar que encontré con restos de fósiles. Es el color que yo le veo al amor.

E mentre le lancette scattano, qualcuno ha gli occhi chiusi. Non è ancora il suo attimo, ma presto il momento verrà. Di luci abbaglianti si illuminerà nuovamente il ponte. Di note sognanti si riempirà il pentagramma. Dall'altra parte c'è ancora una strada. Un palcoscenico pronto, perché riprenda a suonare l'orchestra. Dall'altra parte splende il sole. Dall'altra parte. E' iniziata la traccia nascosta del disco. L'interminabile silenzio è finito.

And so, given the musical sensibilities Hatcher treasured in his earthly life, it is hard to exaggerate the severity of his torture at standing naked in his tiny kitchen in Hell as former FBI director J. Edgar Hoover sings a Bee Gees disco song backed by a full studio orchestra and Robin and Maurice.

Muschio, il suo respiro; rose, la sua guancia; perle, i suoi denti, e una bevanda che inebria, l'acqua della sua bocca. La vita, quella di un ramoscello; le natiche, dune di sabbia inarcate; tenebra i capelli e il volto come un disco lunare luminoso.

Transcend the terrestrial; surpass the celestial, from nature’s hands when you receive the sublime pleasures of dance.

We may mount from this dull Earth; and viewing it from on high, consider whether Nature has laid out all her cost and finery upon this small speck of Dirt. So, like Travellers into other distant countries, we shall be better able to judge of what’s done at home, know how to make a true estimate of, and set its own value upon every thing. We shall be less apt to admire what this World calls great, shall nobly despise those Trifles the generality of Men set their Affections on, when we know that there are a multitude of such Earths inhabited and adorn’d as well as our own.

New Rule: Stop pretending your drugs are morally superior to my drugs because you get yours at a store. This week, they released the autopsy report on Anna Nicole Smith, and the cause of death was what I always thought it was: mad cow. No, it turns out she had nine different prescription drugs in her—which, in the medical field, is known as the “full Limbaugh.” They opened her up, and a Walgreens jumped out. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills, sleeping pills, sedatives, Valium, methadone—this woman was killed by her doctor, who is a glorified bartender. I’m not going to say his name, but only because (a) I don’t want to get sued, and (b) my back is killing me. This month marks the thirty-fifth anniversary of a famous government report. I was sixteen in 1972, and I remember how excited we were when Nixon’s much ballyhooed National Commission on Drug Abuse came out and said pot should be legalized. It was a moment of great hope for common sense—and then, just like Bush did with the Iraq Study Group, Nixon took the report and threw it in the garbage, and from there the ’70s went right into disco and colored underpants. This week in American Scientist, a magazine George Bush wouldn’t read if he got food poisoning in Mexico and it was the only thing he could reach from the toilet, described a study done in England that measured the lethality of various drugs, and found tobacco and alcohol far worse than pot, LSD, or Ecstasy—which pretty much mirrors my own experiments in this same area. The Beatles took LSD and wrote Sgt. Pepper—Anna Nicole Smith took legal drugs and couldn’t remember the number for nine-one-one. I wish I had more time to go into the fact that the drug war has always been about keeping black men from voting by finding out what they’re addicted to and making it illegal—it’s a miracle our government hasn’t outlawed fat white women yet—but I leave with one request: Would someone please just make a bumper sticker that says, “I’m a stoner, and I vote.

Too embarrassed even to try as long as everyone was looking at me, I made what was probably a fairly unique request. ‘Um, I’ll have a go. But I can’t do it if you’re all looking at me. Can I go inside the wardrobe and sing from there?’ The others looked at me strangely, possibly beginning to worry about the apparent absence of any stage personality in this girl they had just recruited, but to their credit they agreed, without killing themselves laughing, and so in I went. From inside my hidey-hole I sang David Bowie’s ‘Rebel Rebel’. I emerged to a very positive response, the others all declaring that I sounded like Siouxsie Sioux – I was trying very hard to – and while I was quite pleased with myself, I wasn’t sure that I would be able to do it in front of an audience. We could hardly take the wardrobe around with us.

Have you ever been in a great mood, or at least a good one, then decided, “You know what, I’m going to troll through Facebook and see what’s happening with my friends.”? I have. I shouldn’t though. It’s a disco strangler of good days. It’s the Ted Bundy of good moods. One minute you’re cruising along and the next you’re chained in a moldy hole in someone’s basement, waiting to be transformed into some psycho’s personal Halloween mask, metaphorically speaking, mind you.

It’s only sixteen ninety-five," I say with a flutter of my lashes. "You’re serious." I prop my hands on my waist and stick out a hip, striking a pose worthy of a supermodel. "Look at me. Don’t I look serious?" She collapses into the chair outside the dressing room in a fit of giggles so cute they make my insides fizz. "No! You must be stopped," she says. "Why?" I strut down an aisle of yellowed lingerie, swiveling my hips, batting bras with flicks of my fingers. "I will be the king of the disco. I will be—" I spin and strike another pose. "An inspiration." She sniffs and swipes at her eyes. "The real Dylan would die before he’d be seen in public in something like that." "The real Dylan is boring." I brace my hands on the arms of her chair and lean down until our faces are a whisper apart. "And he’s not one fourth the kisser I am." "Is that right?" Her lips quirk. "You know it is." Her smile melts, and her breath comes faster. "Yeah. I do.

Even at a young age one sometimes recognizes that there are behavior patterns that would simply be a waste of time for everyone concerned, which leads you to put them out of your mind or avoid them until you reach a certain stage of inebriation, whereupon everything is reconsidered again.

But any idiot can see you two are gaga for one another.” As in Lady Gaga? Because I do enjoy riding Wade’s disco stick and playing our own version of poker face. And even though I’m terrified we’ll wind up having a bad romance, leaving me to just dance while watching Wade ride off into the sunset with Alejandro as the paparazzi followed in a frenzy, I can’t seem to stop myself from loving him. I shook the nonsense out of my head.

He put his hands on my hips. He was shy, all of a sudden. There was a second of feeling like two teenagers who had been set up by their friends at the school disco. We exchanged a well, look at us! expression, and he tilted his head, very slightly, to kiss me. And the kiss was like—what was it like? It was like finding your favourite pair of boots under the bed. It was like finding them on the last day of your lease, the boxes already in the van, having assumed that they must have been left at an ex-lover’s house, or simply vanished by your own carelessness. Oh, these. Oh. Oh. I love these. When I finally stopped kissing him, I put my arms around his waist, and laid my head on his shoulder. My nose dug deep to find the old smell, my hands on the rough denim of his jacket. I had missed him so much, and I hadn’t even known it. “Carey,” I said. “Carey, Carey, Carey.” “Darling,” he replied. “I think you’re a bit old to call me by my last name.” And so now, everyone I love is called James.

Sobre el fin del milenio, las personas que tienen asegurada casa, comida, entradas al cine, ropa y discos viven hostigadas por la idea de que hay una fiesta, una gran fiesta, pero que está siempre sucediendo en otro lado. Les tengo malas noticias, amigos: la fiesta no está en ninguna parte. Estar conectado, vivir sin riesgos, imaginarse el mundo como un lugar claro y racional donde queremos habitar…Esa es la distopía que propulsa a las propagandas de telefonía celular. En realidad no estamos conectados con nadie. Cada vez acumulamos más información -podemos tener 5 mil canciones en un ipod- , pero, ya no podemos pensar. Ya lo dijo Sara Connor, la mamá de John en Terminator: Las máquinas vienen por nosotros. Se achican, cada vez más pequeñas, símbolo de perfección y pedigrí para quien las posea. Mientras tanto nosotros engordamos de comida, discos, películas y revistas que ya leemos de reojo porque no damos más…

En algunos de los profundos valles, la luz diurna atrapada del Disco, que es lenta y ligeramente pesada,* se evaporaba como vapor plateado. (...) —- * Prácticamente todo puede moverse a mayor velocidad que la luz del Disco, que es lenta y mansa, a diferencia de la luz corriente. Según el filósofo Ly Tin Wheedle, lo único conocido que se mueve más deprisa que la luz corriente es la monarquía. Llegó a esta conclusión siguiendo este razonamiento: no se puede tener más de un rey, y la tradición exige que no existan intervalos entre un rey y otro, de manera que cuando un rey muere, la sucesión ha de pasar al heredero instantáneamente. Según Wheedle, es probable que existan ciertas partículas elementales, los reiones o tal vez las reionas, que se encargan de cumplir esta función, pero hay que tener en cuenta que a veces la sucesión falla si, en mitad del vuelo chocan con una antipartícula, o republicón. Su ambicioso plan de utilizar este descubrimiento para enviar mensajes, para lo cual hubo que torturar cuidadosamente a un rey menor para poder así modular la señal, jamás llegó a desarrollarse con todo detalle porque, alcanzado este punto, le cerraron el bar.

If only I could cry. I am beyond that. The light, the light, lending itself to empty downtown Saturday, but still the stupid insensate cars flush by oblivious to their stupidity, my silent plea. It isn't Mexico. It's not Paris. It's a painting by Hopper come to life. I am trapped inside a dead thing. Language is impossible here, even in English. Who has the arrogance to say: I'm mad, this is my crazy view of things, help me. I'm trapped in a silent world, a tableau of forty years ago. The walls are different, the tables, the heights of the veiling and the chairs. I loom above this letter. The view past the rows of cakes in the plate glass window is unfamiliar. I am a ghost. There is nothing now between me and death. Death is the unfamiliarity of everything, the strangeness of the once familiar. The same spatial configurations only the light is hollow, sick. I think I lack the energy to hit expensive discos which I don't know where they are to be rejected tonight. I look passable. My energy's low. I love to dance but despair is not a good muse. This Mexico, babe. Men who don't love you but act wildly as if they do initially. Self-involved, narcissistic men... The men drink and philosophize about pain. The women live it solo and culturelessly. No one cries, except easily, sentimentally. The devil, therefore God, exists. Oaxaca was a pushover compared to this. Pain had boundaries there. Spare us big cities, oh lord!

God was dead: to begin with. And romance was dead. Chivalry was dead. Poetry, the novel, painting, they were all dead, and art was dead. Theatre and cinema were both dead. Literature was dead. The book was dead. Modernism, postmodernism, realism and surrealism were all dead. Jazz was dead, pop music, disco, rap, classical music, dead. Culture was dead. Decency, society, family values were dead. The past was dead. History was dead. The welfare state was dead. Politics was dead. Democracy was dead. Communism, fascism, neoliberalism, capitalism, all dead, and marxism, dead, feminism, also dead. Political correctness, dead. Racism was dead. Religion was dead. Thought was dead. Hope was dead. Truth and fiction were both dead. The media was dead. The internet was dead. Twitter, instagram, facebook, google, dead. Love was dead. Death was dead. A great many things were dead. Some, though, weren’t, or weren’t dead yet. Life wasn’t yet dead. Revolution wasn’t dead. Racial equality wasn’t dead. Hatred wasn’t dead. But the computer? Dead. TV? Dead. Radio? Dead. Mobiles were dead. Batteries were dead. Marriages were dead, sex

I love London. I love everything about it. I love its palaces and its museums and its galleries, sure. But also, I love its filth, and damp, and stink. Okay, well, I don’t mean love, exactly. But I don’t mind it. Not any more. Not now I’m used to it. You don’t mind anything once you’re used to it. Not the graffiti you find on your door the week after you painted over it, or the chicken bones and cider cans you have to move before you can sit down for your damp and muddy picnic. Not the everchanging fast food joints – AbraKebabra to Pizza the Action to Really Fried Chicken – and all on a high street that despite its three new names a week never seems to look any different. Its tawdriness can be comforting, its wilfulness inspiring. It’s the London I see every day. I mean, tourists: they see the Dorchester. They see Harrods, and they see men in bearskins and Carnaby Street. They very rarely see the Happy Shopper on the Mile End Road, or a drab Peckham disco. They head for Buckingham Palace, and see waving above it the red, white and blue, while the rest of us order dansak from the Tandoori Palace, and see Simply Red, White Lightning, and Duncan from Blue. But we should be proud of that, too. Or, at least, get used to it.