Contributors to Last Days of a Great City
P O S T E D B Y S A L L Y
It was Felix who brought us together. We had little in common before that. One thing that united us—Black, White, young, old—was an abiding skepticism about received wisdom. Felix saw this and invited us to blog together, to inflict our clashing perspectives on one another and the world.
Each of the contributors to Last Days of a Great City has blogged on issues relating to the Culture Wars, sometimes openly and often under an assumed name. Each continues a dialogue that began with Dionysus and Apollo—a dialogue that has little resonance in the waking dream induced by contemporary market forces. Last Days owes allegiance to no school of thought, no political party, no religious creed. Individually and collectively we aspire to Truth, Beauty, and Justice, although Rachel Tension still thinks that's a big load of bullshit.
We talked amongst ourselves to find a cultural product that we could all endorse. This took more than a month of e-mailing back and forth—long e-mails filled with didactic nonsense. We finally lighted on this speech from Nagg in Samuel Beckett’s Endgame:
Let me tell it again.
(Raconteur's voice.)
An Englishman, needing a pair of striped trousers in a hurry for the New Year festivities, goes to his tailor who takes his measurements.
(Tailor's voice.)
"That's the lot, come back in four days, I'll have it ready." Good. Four days later.
(Tailor's voice.)
"So sorry, come back in a week, I've made a mess of the seat." Good, that's all right, a neat seat can be very ticklish. A week later.
(Tailor's voice.)
"Frightfully sorry, come back in ten days, I've made a hash of the crotch." Good, can't be helped, a snug crotch is always a teaser. Ten days later.
(Tailor's voice.)
"Dreadfully sorry, come back in a fortnight, I've made a balls of the fly." Good, at a pinch, a smart fly is a stiff proposition.
(Pause. Normal voice.)
I never told it worse.
(Pause. Gloomy.)
I tell this story worse and worse.
(Pause. Raconteur's voice.)
Well, to make it short, the bluebells are blowing and he ballockses the buttonholes.
(Customer's voice.)
"God damn you to hell, Sir, no, it's indecent, there are limits! In six days, do you hear me, six days, God made the world. Yes Sir, no less Sir, the WORLD! And you are not bloody well capable of making me a pair of trousers in three months!"
(Tailor's voice, scandalized.)
"But my dear Sir, my dear Sir, look—
(disdainful gesture, disgustedly)
—at the world—
(Pause.)
and look—
(loving gesture, proudly)
—at my TROUSERS!"
We invite you not only to look at our trousers but to comment freely and otherwise keep in touch. Click for profiles of the contributors to Last Days of a Great City.
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