My flesh crept as the loud-speaker poured out these sodden words, that greasy, sagging melody. I felt ashamed of myself for listening to such things, for even being a member of the species to which such things are addressed.Related post: Pollution of the Airwaves.
"A peculiar anthologic maze, an amusing literary chaos, a farrago of quotations, a mere olla podrida of quaintness, a pot pourri of pleasant delites, a florilegium of elegant extracts, a tangled fardel of old-world flowers of thought, a faggot of odd fancies, quips, facetiae, loosely tied" (Holbrook Jackson, Anatomy of Bibliomania) by a "laudator temporis acti," a "praiser of time past" (Horace, Ars Poetica 173).
Pages
▼
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Popular Music
Aldous Huxley (1894-1963), Silence Is Golden, in Do What You Will: Essays (London: Chatto & Windus, 1929), pp. 52-61 (at 59):