Occasionally, I write original stuff and post it here. More commonly, this is where I store pictures of art, museum exhibits, film stills, and other stuff I find interesting.
A FOG in London daytime like the night is,
Our fellow-creatures seem like wandering ghosts,
The dull mephitic cloud will bring bronchitis;
You cannon into cabs or fall o’er posts.
The air is full of pestilential vapours,
Innumerable “blacks” come with the smoke
The thief and rough cut unmolested capers,
In truth a London Fog’s no sort of joke.
You rise by candle-light or gaslight, swearing
There never was a climate made like ours;
If rashly you go out to take an airing,
The soot-flakes come in black Plutonian show’rs.
Your carriage wildly runs into another,
No matter though you go at walking pace;
You meet your dearest friend, or else your brother,
And never know him, although face to face.
The hours run on, and night and day commingle,
Unutterable filth is in the air;
You re much depressed, e’en in the fire-side ingle,
The hag Dyspepsia seems everywhere.
Your wild disgust in vain you try to bridle,
Mad as March hare or hydrophobic dog,
You feel in fact intensely suicidal:
Such things befall us in a London Fog!
From Punch, December 30, 1882 (via aubade)
I’m currently reading (and loving the hell out of) Peter Ackroyd’s London: A Biography. I love London, but I’m really glad I was there in 2002 and not 1882, because apparently all the lyrics about London in Sweeney Todd were true. London was one nasty, stanky, dreadful place.