6th june 2005

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Walter Sickert - Ennui

. . . the old publican, with his glass on the table before him and a cigar gone cold at his lips, looking out of his shrewd little pig's eyes at the intolerable wastes of desolation in front of him. A fat woman lounges, her arm on a cheap yellow chest of drawers, behind him. It is all over with them, one feels. The accumulated weariness of innumerable days has discharged its burden on them.
- Virginia Woolf

You rotten misanthrope Virginia, reading far too much and far too nastily. Can one not be even slightly fat? To me this Sickert is a perfect example of Berryman's 'life, friends, is boring.' And why not say so? Why create a silly narrative instead of enjoying a fine portrayal of the human condition?


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