SPIWIT AND DEWWING-DO!

A chance-met conversationalist the other day admitted that guilt informed all of his passions. Which, it turned out, were all rather pedestrian and predictable. Perhaps because of his psychological limitations. I don't know why I continued talking to him; perhaps I senses a loneliness, as well as a desperate need on his part to feel relevant and involved.

I believe more and more that whatever you do, you need to do it with enthusiasm and interest. Pursue intensely, using the capabilities at your command.


Here's a self-help video.

SPIWITS, BWAVADO, A TOUCH OF DEWWING-DO


[Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2K8_jgiNqUc.]

The hero of that scene is not Brian, but Pontius Pilate. Whose appetite for life lets him appreciate the wascality of webellious Jews, as well as the eloquence inherent in the English language.
Oh, and sending people who offend him to gladiator school.

All accounts of Pilate's life are fragmentary, and utterly suspect due to a wealth of ideological biases. Consequently we might as well assume that his portrayal by Michael Palin in the documentary "Life of Brian" is as accurate as any.

A man of classical tastes.

Judging by the scene above, Pilate had a keen eye and a well-developed artistic sense. If he were alive today, he'd probably read Somerset Maugham, Jane Austin, Evelyn Waugh, Proust, and Nabokov.

His taste in pipes might incline towards Charatan's from the pre-Lane period, tobacco-wise he'd incline toward Rattray's Old Gowrie, and he'd be a man of temperate appetites, kind to cats and dogs and impatient with humans, especially if they could not appreciate subtlety and detail.

Unfortunately, I can also see him as a man of a multitude of minor perversions and fetishes. Much like the rest of modern society.
On that level, I doubt that I would get along with him.

Being, as you well know, a sober and restrained person myself.
With no obsessive predilections or hobbies.
Just abiding interests.


Pipe tobacco. Oolong tea. Nabokov. Green ceramics. Joseph Conrad. Stuffed animals. Chilipaste. Pantaleon Gerhard Koenraad Hajenius. Panties. Dutch-Indonesian literature. Tang poetry. Yiddish. Tea-dust glaze. Aṣṭādhyāyī of Pāṇini. Petjoh. Ulysses, by James Joyce. Coconut milk. Shui Hsien tea. Perique. Shekwan pottery. Simenon. Bitter melon. Anthropomorphism. Corvidae. Joyce Cary. Schoolboy Latin. Famille Jaune and Famille Rose. Maria Dermoût. Fish sauce. Feminine lacies. Fire-cured Kentucky. Johan Fabricius. Eastern Borneo. Kipling. Manga. Dutch fried foods. Mustelidae. Jean Pierre Rawie. Goryeo celadons. Anna Karenina. Skewered meat with peanut sauce. Su Tung-po. Geste du Roi. Medium flakes. Nipples. Keemun. Elisha ben Abuya. Wyndham Lewis. Ischa Meijer. Pear kugel. French-cut briefs. Gerbrand Adriaenszoon Bredero. Yi-Xing purple stoneware teapots. Marguerite Yourcenar.
Et id genus alia.


Unlike Pilate, I've run out of space. The apartment is somewhat too fully packed. Really, I need an over-the-top and tremendously vulgar palace to redecorate in classical style, and dump all my crap in.

And possibly my very own gladiator school.

For the woudy wapscallions.

Who giggle.



Anyhow, I let the other person mentioned at the beginning of this post waffle on and on, seeing as he felt the need to unburden and talk about himself. Sometimes one needs to do that, and often there are aspects of other people's lives which, though they are not aware of it, are quite interesting and peculiar. Listening to others can let you learn much.
Unfortunately, as I said, he was not particularly unusual. Just a decent person, with nothing but good habits and rather boring tastes.
I doubt very much that he reads for pleasure.
Or has any startling eccentricities.
No rotten behaviour.



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