Nahed Alkhaloo’s Reviews > A Room of One’s Own > Status Update
Like flag
Nahed’s Previous Updates
Nahed Alkhaloo
is finished
men, that is to say, are now
writing only with the male side of their bra
— 17 hours, 28 min ago
writing only with the male side of their bra
Nahed Alkhaloo
is on page 110 of 112
men, that is to say, are now
writing only with the male side of their brain.
— 17 hours, 29 min ago
writing only with the male side of their brain.
Nahed Alkhaloo
is on page 103 of 112
London was wholly indifferent,
it appeared, to Shakespeare's plays. Nobody cared
a straw - and I do not blame them - for the future of
fiction, the death of poetry or the development by the
average woman of a prose style completely expressive of
her mind. If opinions upon any of these matters had been
chalked on the pavement, nobody would have stooped to
read them.
— 17 hours, 30 min ago
it appeared, to Shakespeare's plays. Nobody cared
a straw - and I do not blame them - for the future of
fiction, the death of poetry or the development by the
average woman of a prose style completely expressive of
her mind. If opinions upon any of these matters had been
chalked on the pavement, nobody would have stooped to
read them.
Nahed Alkhaloo
is on page 66 of 112
They tell us we mistake our sex and way;
Good breeding , fashion, dancing, dressing , play,
Are the accomplishments we should desire;
To write, or read, or think, or to enquire,
Would cloud our beauty, and exhaust our time
— 17 hours, 31 min ago
Good breeding , fashion, dancing, dressing , play,
Are the accomplishments we should desire;
To write, or read, or think, or to enquire,
Would cloud our beauty, and exhaust our time
peace descended like a cloud from heaven, for if the
spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and
quadrangles of Oxbridge
I give you my thoughts as they came to me
That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a
matter of complete indifference to a famous library.
Venerable and calm, with all its treasures safe locked
within its breast, it sleeps complacently and will, so far as
I am concerned, so sleep for ever. Never will I wake
those echoes, never will I ask for that hospitality again.
Hence the difficulty of modern poetry; and it is
because of this difficulty that one cannot remember more
than two consecutive lines of any good modern poet.
But why say 'blame'? Why, if it was an
illusion, not praise the catastrophe, whatever it was, that
destroyed illusion and put truth in its place?
One
cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not
dined well. 🫧😅