essays, memoirs, fiction, poetry (hungry, despairing, hopeful, all at once)

'the plague is difficult to describe. it had begun some months before. it was not a plague in the ordinary sense of the word. it was a kind of thinness, a transparency. within it people aged quickly, or succumbed to debilitating illnesses... the very buildings fell apart and began to look unkempt, ill-kept. businesses failed. all projects dragged out indefinitely and in the end came to nothing.' 

- m. john harrison, in viriconium.

'this week the high city can think of nothing but the barley brothers. what they wear, where they go, what they do when they get there, all this is suddenly of paramount interest. the most vexing question is; where do they live?... I do not encourage such speculation.' 

- ashlyme's journal  in  m. john harrison's in viriconium.

a novel. a journal within a novel. later within the novel, a book of reminiscences. horsemouth is reading in viriconium (having read a young man's journey to viriconium). viriconium is every city and thus it is not one city in particular. it's also every travel destination rue, strasse, plaza, canal, lime walk and a location as if translated the terrace of the fallen leaves, the plaza of unrealised time. 

'the plague permeates all our decisions like a fog.' - ashlyme's journal  in  m. john harrison's in viriconium.

horsemouth has brought in his copy of leopard II a collection of many foreign authors in translation - lampedusa, magris, saramago, and many russians. 

today (as it will be) rain and the start of horsemouth and his mum's abbey duty. the seasonal average seems to be 7C by day, 3C by night, and rain. it is the night before and horsemouth is listening to the rain. 

'audsley king seems to observe all this from a dream. her expression is terrible: hungry, despairing, hopeful, all at once.'  - ashlyme's journal (started on a new page) in  m. john harrison's in viriconium.

soon it will be over. horsemouth will probably read the other tales in the book. 

following the death of bob weir horsemouth has been thinking about ripple by the grateful dead which reminds him (in part) of  I am a pilgrim covered by the byrds. 

'I am a pilgrim and a stranger

travelling through this wearisome land

I've got a home in

that yonder city, good lord

and it's not

not made by hand...'