4.25.2016 Quote of the Day

queue workers DEPRESSION BREAD LINEFactories sweat you to death, labour exchanges talk you to death, insurance and income tax offices milk money from your wage packets and rob you to death.  And if you’re still left with a tiny bit of life in your guts after all this boggering about, the army calls you up and you get shot to death.  And if you’re clever enough to stay out of the army you get bombed to death.  Ay, by God, it’s a hard life if you don’t weaken, if you don’t stop that bastard government from grinding your face in the muck, though there ain’t much you can do about it unless you start making dynamite to blow their four-eyed clocks to bits.
         (Of course, the army does try to whip resistance right out of you).  On his first parade the sergeant-major exclaimed that he couldn’t make out the shape of Arthur’s head because there was so much hair on it, and Arthur jocularly agreed to get it cut, intending to forget about it until the fifteen days was over, which he did.  ‘You’re a soldier now, not a Teddy-boy,’ the sergeant-major said, but Arthur knew he was wrong in either case.  He was nothing at all when people tried to tell him what he was.  Not even his own name was enough, though it might be on on his pay-book.  What am I? he wondered.  A six-foot pit-prop that wants a pint of ale.  That’s what I am.  And if any knowing bastard says that’s what I am, I’m a dynamite-dealer, Sten-gun seller, hundred-ton tank trader, a capstan-lathe operator waiting to blow the army to Kingdom Cum.  I’m me and nobody else; and what people think I am or say I am, that’s what I’m not, because they don’t know a bloody thing about me.

           (In any event), (i)f you went through life refusing all the bait dangled in front of you, that would be no life at all.  No changes would be made and you would have nothing to fight against.  Life would be dull as ditchwater.  (In this vein in fact), The art of writing is to explain the complications of the human soul with the simplicity that can be universally understood.

pfunked Deviant Art
pfunked Deviant Art
          (When a little slack is available, therefore, on) Saturday night, the best and bingiest glad-time of the week, one of the fifty-two holidays in the slow-turning Big Wheel of the year, a violent preamble to a prostrate Sabbath,(you can get ripped and let rip).  Piled up passions were exploded on Saturday night, and the effect of a week’s monotonous graft in the factory was swilled out of your system in a burst of goodwill.  You followed the motto of ‘be drunk and be happy,’ kept your crafty arms around female waists, and felt the beer going beneficially down into the elastic capacity of your guts.”  Alan Sillitoe; Saturday Night and Sunday Morning