Grant McGaheran
@grantmcgaheran
From Sheffield, in Tokyo since 2000. Books, walks, modernism, records, cats.
Healing moment between unhurried trains with milk and nice handwriting.
'Choosing a pink serpentine path, he made his way into the heart of a shrubbery. Although it was still high summer, a feeling of departed glory seemed to hang in the evening air. The gentleness of the sun on his face was telling and sad.'
'Two living voices in conversation drifted from some field. Somewhere a hen cackled with fright. Here was only interest of the graves and names, the verses, the dates, the weeds and withered wreaths, the ghastly artificial roses and lilies under globes of glass.'
Monday afternoon, grey and close. Shhhh and skweee sounds are general.
Une masse qui s'anime, se détache Au sens prédétermine elle s'arrache
These are bonus DVDs from reissues of Talk Talk albums, but keep thinking I've received early birthday cards from aunties.
'There was no room for me in my bedroom in Balbec ('mine' in name only); it was full of things that didn't know me, returned the mistrustful glance I gave them and, paying no heed whatsoever to my existence, demonstrated that I was disturbing the routine of theirs.'
'The images of himself, of his daily work and of his body, rose often and unbidden before him. They bloomed in Mortimer Road and Cave Crescent, among the similar houses, detached or partly so. They hovered, then, over conversation and instruction; they were there in the Austin, like fog.'