Girl of my Dreams XI

Alice Sara Ott, a 23-year-old German-Japanese pianist.

She plays the Appassionata better than anyone else.

This november, I wish to...

*Martin Pisotti

1. Wear glittery shoes indoors. Go to lots of parties, have mulled wine (and champagne)

*Stuart McKenna

2. Get on a Caledonian sleeper and wander in the Scottish highlands, wearing my softest cashmere scarf from Island of Islay, embracing the crisp winter wind

*Neëst*

3. Cuddle a cat to sleep

*Inès ☆

4. Dream of Monet's Giverny

p.s. None of the above is going to be realised any time soon, but at least I am going to Cambridge this weekend for formal dinner at Trinity College and a long stroll along River Cam, hopefully in the glorious autumnal light, camera in hand...

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Cinematic Writing V

'. . . The car slowed down. It had to take its place in the long line of cars that moved at a foot’s pace, now stopping dead, now jerking on, down the narrow street, blocked by market carts, that led to the Opera House. Men and women in full evening dress were walking along the pavement. They looked uncomfortable and self-conscious as they dodged between costers’ barrows, with their high piled hair and their evening cloaks; with their button-holes and their white waistcoats, in the glare of the afternoon sun. The ladies tripped uncomfortably on their high-heeled shoes; now and then they put their hands to their heads. The gentlemen kept close beside them as though protecting them. It’s absurd, Kitty thought; it’s ridiculous to come out in full evening dress at this time of day. She leant back in her corner. Covent Garden porters, dingy little clerks in their ordinary working clothes, coarse-looking women in aprons stared in at her. The air smelt strongly of oranges and bananas. But the car was coming to a standstill. It drew up under the archway; she pushed through the glass doors and went in.

She felt at once a sense of relief. Now that the daylight was extinguished and the air glowed yellow and crimson, she no longer felt absurd. On the contrary, she felt appropriate. The ladies and gentlemen who were mounting the stairs were dressed exactly as she was. The smell of oranges and bananas had been replaced by another smell — a subtle mixture of clothes and gloves and flowers that affected her pleasantly. The carpet was thick beneath her feet.'

- Virginia Woolf, excerpt from The Years

L'amour

'It's not the pale moon that excites me/ That thrills and delights me, oh no/Yes, it's just the nearness of you'

- Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, The Nearness of You

My heart is still leaping with joy for my friend's wedding in Hamburg last weekend, and also newly laden with sorrow as my boyfriend left London for his gap half-year in the Far East - but I know under the veil of tears and longing, love will see us through, love will take us home. Like they always say, 'Tis absense, however, that makes the heart grow fonder.

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In flames

Londres, le parlement, by Claude Monet

Riots are about power, and they are about catharsis. They are not about poor parenting, or youth services being cut, or any of the other snap explanations that media pundits have been trotting out: structural inequalities, as a friend of mine remarked today, are not solved by a few pool tables. People riot because it makes them feel powerful, even if only for a night. People riot because they have spent their whole lives being told that they are good for nothing, and they realise that together they can do anything – literally, anything at all.

- Laurie Penny, whose full article can be viewed here

While acknowledging the underpinning injustice and discrimination in the society, I regret to say that such vengeance, such violence cannot be a solution to the problems, nor a justification for any of the grave crimes that have been committed in London and other cities. The rioters and looters are ruthlessly destroying other people's lives, oppressing people who are even more powerless that themselves and shaming the name of wherever they come from. They are symbols of decadence, not of humanity, but of their very own selves.

I am truly, very sad and worried about London.

I hope that everyone in London will stay safe. And amidst the chaos, true justice for all people will be served.

The Fallen Angel

Bookish Club

How I wish I could lounge on a bed, or by the pool to read during the bright summer days - but since I am working during most days, my only reading time exists through the fleeting moments when I am travelling to and fro around town, squeezed between commuters. I did try to embark on Kafka's The Trial but it got too dark and heavy for a leisure read - and mostly, I felt like I am undergoing metamorphosis myself, being squashed in the densest city in the world and transformed into an anonymous being in yet another black skirt and heels.

I have so far read two volumes of Kafka's short works, which I would share next time. Meanwhile I would like to list a few favourite books of mine for your reference - they all employ illness as a metaphor for the human condition, and has transcended the emotions pertaining to the illnesses into something more macroscopic, poetic and illuminating.

Blindness By José Saramago

The Plague by Albert Camus

Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby

I especially recommend The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a beautiful and poignant memoir by the former editor of French Elle editor who had a stroke and was locked inside his own body. He painstakingly dictated the memoir by moving the only possible body part - by blinking his eyelids. Only through his perseverance in breaking the silence of the diving bell could we finally hear the fluttering wings of the butterfly.

What are your favourite books?

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