Quote of the Day, for the unintiated:

May: This has never been done before.
Hammond: No. We are in fact on the cutting edge of cocking about.

This might possibly be my favourite show of all time. Why would I watch a show about cars otherwise?

In other news, I have still not regained my voice. It has been lost since Tokyo...5 days ago.
I have never coughed so long, so hard, so painfully or with so much puking in my life. My throat feels like it's on fire.

All from Homicidal Psycho Jungle Cat.

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( The only skills I have the patience to learn are those that have no real application in life. )

All from The Days Are Just Packed.

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( Is this some sort of trick question, or what? )

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( It's not denial. I'm just selective about the reality I accept. )

Edit: There was a typo in icon #9. It's fixed now, but it was "shamless" instead of "shameless". Hahaha! This just proves that often, we read what we expect to see, not what is actually before us.

I read this a long time ago, in a comprehension book. It is fantastically thought-provoking and deserves a wider audience than students who would merely curse it for being a difficult passage.

"Got some books to sell," he said. "Sci-fi and fantasy mainly. The guy in the book shop round the corner said you might be interested." I could not restrain a smile. Whenever old Kowalski found himself beleaguered by students trying to unload their books on him for holiday money at the end of the summer term, he always gave them my address, though he knew my tastes were specialised and my funds were limited. I would invariably send them on their way unrewarded after examining their wares with forged interest. It was a sort of running joke between us. "Well, you've come to the right place," I said. "I am something of a collector, yes." I gestured behind me to the impressively sagging bookshelves lining my walls. "So what rarities do you have to offer me?"

He loosened the drawstring of the duffel bag he carried on his shoulder and emptied its contents onto the mat at my feet. In the cataract of dog-eared paperbacks with garish covers and fanciful titles disgorged for my inspection, my eyes fixed on a slim hardback still sporting its glossy white jacket, though somewhat stained and darkened by age, like a dinner guest at the wrong party. The dust flap bore the title Book of Ands and below it in smaller print the author's name, George Lewis Berg. "What's this?" I said, picking out the volume from the mass grave in which it lay half-buried and opening it at random. The page was filled with regularly spaced columns of the single word 'and'. I thumbed further ahead, then back to the beginning; each page was the same. "Seems to be some sort of joke, isn't it, a parody?" I said to hide my dismay, thinking of Hemingway and Dickens, those aficionados of the 'and'.

"Sort of, yeah. It was a present from a girl I used to go out with. It's my name, you see. Well, Andy really, but everyone calls me And. I guess she thought it was funny."

I had been fingering the book while we spoke, stroking it, caressing it, rehearsing my proprietary rights. I admit, such curiousities excite me. With feigned indifference, I enquired, "And how much are you asking for this masterpiece, this attack of literary conjunctivitis?"

"I couldn't let it go for less than a quid. Sentimental value. You know."

I offered him fifty pence and he accepted. The transaction completed, I invited my visitor in for coffee. I do not receive many callers and thought it might be agreeable to pass an idle hour or two in bookish conversation. To this end, I tried to elicit from my guest his opinion of the British contribution to fantasy literature, with particular reference to Stevenson and Wells. Unfortunately he appeared singularly ill-informed about the whole subject - he seemed to be under the impression that Stevenson invented the rocket - and when he had dribbled the last of his coffee I invented an excuse about a dental appointment and saw him to the door. There are so few people these days with whom one can talk about matters that matter.

( onward to more )

This story brought long forgotten thoughts of authorship and the relationship between reader and writer to the surface. Debates rage on how we ought to approach analysis to any text. Should we bring to the text our own thoughts and beliefs, should we consider its history and context or take it as a stand-alone? Should we consider authorial intent? Does it matter? Should it matter?

To anyone who's ever written something, edited it, went back to edit some more, then finally deleted it entirely - thinking it insignificant and unimportant. This story will strike a chord.