cloz > Recent Status Updates

(Things don't like me. Furniture purposely sticks out its leg for me. A polished corner once literally bit me. My blanket and I have always had a complicated relationship. Soup served to me never cools. Any little thing a coin or a cuff link-that falls off the table usually rolls away under furniture that's hard to move. I crawl across the floor and lifting my head I see the sideboard laughing.)

‘of course’ replied La Maheude. ‘Blow the candle out, I don’t need to see what my thoughts look like.’

We put it this way: Military capability is the launching pad of diplomacy.

"I worry about something more basic," she said, turning her head to look up at him sideways.
"More basic?" Radovan asked.
"Like the question of how we got into that bind." She gazed up at him, still sideways, waiting for an answer whose wisdom would match her own, though hers was a paraphrasing of her father's answer to Bernice and to any-body, back in DeVelbiss, who voiced the same fear.

1"Do you think there'll be a war by accident anyway?" she asked, framing her question differently in order to ask
it twice.
"Anyway?" he inquired.
"I mean anyway, in spite of what you said that the hrst missile would probably never be fired. Could there be a war by accident, anyway?"

Among the scholars, the best man, they fig-ured, was one whose field was mankind. Well, philosophy sounded too highbrow-it does to the average man, that is
—and anthropology is too much concerned with the primitive and the past, sociology sounded statistical and cold, and so history won out.

Then they decided that he must be a modest fellow, somebody with some accomplishments but not too many; not a four-star professor, they're intimi-dating, but almost one, maybe somebody who just didn't make the grade or hadn't made it yet, like a lot of us—an associate professor.

and perhaps this is the germ of an immense metropolis. ...

From these data it is possible to deduce an image of the future Berenice, which will bring you closer to knowing the truth than any other information abour the city as it is seen today. You must nevertheless bear in mind what I am about to say to you: in the seed of the city of the just, a malignant seed is hid-den, in its turn: the certainty and pride of being in the right-and of being more just than many others

Instead of describing to you the perfumed pools of the baths where the unjust of Berenice recline and weave their intrigues with round eloquence and observe with a proprietary eye the rotund fesh of the bathing odalisques, I should say to you how the just, always cautious to evade the spying sycophants and the Janizaries' mass arrests, recognize one another by their way of speaking,

become the pleasure of others: all spaces change, all heights, distances; the city is transfigured, becomes crystalline, transparent as a dragonfly.everything must happen as if by chance, without attaching too much importance to it, without insisting that you are performing a decisive operation, remembering … any moment the old Marozia will return and solder its ceiling of store, cobwebs, and mold over all heads

I have come back to Marozia after many years: for some time the sibyl's prophecy is considered to have come true; the old century is dead and buried, the new is at its climax. The city has surely changed, and perhaps for the better. But the wings I have seen moving about are those of suspicious umbrellas under which heavy eyelids are lowered; there are people who believe they are flying, but it is already an

the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence."

Perinthia's astronomers are faced with a difficult choice. Either they must admit that all their calculations were wrong and their figures are unable to describe the heavens, or else they must reveal that the order of the gods is reflected exactly in the city of
monsters.

If you ask, "Why is Thekla's construction taking such a long time?" the inhabitants continue hoisting sacks, lowering leaded strings, moving long brushes up and down, as they
answer,
"So that its destruction cannot begin." And if asked whether they fear that, once the scaffoldings are removed, the city may begin to crumble and fall to pieces, they add hastily, in a whisper, "Not only the city."

It is not so much by the things that each day are manufactured, sold, bought that you can measure Leonia's opulence, but rather by the things that each day are thrown out to make room for the new. So you begin to wonder if Leonia's true passion is really, as they say, the enjoyment of new and different things, and not, instead, the joy of expelling, discarding, cleansing itself of a recurrent impurity.

In the place of roofs they imagine that the underground city has overturned rubbish bins, with cheese rinds, greasy paper, fish scales, dishwater, uneaten spaghetti, old bandages spilling from them.

They say that every time they go below they find something changed in the lower Eusapia; the dead make innovations in their city; not many, but surely the fruit of sober reflection, not passing whims.

Clarice, the glorious city, has a tormented history.
Several times it decayed, then burgeoned again, always keeping the first Clarice as an unparalleled model of every splendor, compared to which the city's present state can only cause more sighs at every fading of the stars.

POLO: Perhaps all that is left of the world is a wasteland covered with rubbish heaps, and the hanging garden of the Great Khan's palace. It is our eyelids that separate them, but we cannot know which is inside and which outside.

But you could, similarly, come to the opposite conclusion: that the true map of the universe is the city of Eudoxia, just as it is, a stain that spreads out shapelessly, with crooked streets, houses that crumble one upon the other amid clouds of dust, fires, screams in the darkness.

I thought: "You reach a moment in life when, among the people you have known, the dead outnumber the living. And the mind refuses to accept more faces, more expressions: on every new face you encounter, it prints the old forms, tor each one it finds the most suitable mask."

Many are the cities like Phyllis, which elude the gaze of all, except the man who catches them by surprise.

Combining segments of the various routes, elevated or on ground level, each inhabitant can enjoy every day the pleasure of a new itinerary to reach the same places. The most fixed and calm lives in Emeralda are spent without any repetition.

Without stones there is no arch.

There are three hypotheses about the inhabitants of Baucis: that they hate the earth; that they respect it so much they avoid all contact; that they love it as it was before they existed and with spyglasses and telescopes aimed downward they never tire of examining it, leaf by leaf, stone by stone, ant by ant, contemplating with fascination their own absence.

Suspended over the abyss, the life of Octavia’s inhabitants is less uncertain than in other cities. They know the net will last only so long.

"There is something you do not know," the Khan adds.
"The grateful moon has granted the city of Lalage a rarer privilege: to grow in lightness."

The Great Khan contemplates an empire covered with cities that weigh upon the earth and upon man-kind, crammed with wealth and traffic, overladen with ornaments and offices, complicated with mechanisms and hierarchies, swollen, tense, ponderous.
"The empire is being crushed by its own weight," Ku-blai thinks,

Thus the city repeats its life, identical, shifting up and down on its empty chessboard. The inhabitants repeat the same scenes, with the actors changed;they repeat the same speches wich variously combined accents;they open alternate mouths in identical yawns.Alone, among all the cities of the empire, Eutropia remains always the same.Mercury,god of the fickle, co whom the city is sacred, worked this ambiguous miracle