The Condition of Muzak Read Online Free PDF

notorious “maisnie Cornelius” (Harlequin-troupe), which appeared so frequently both in mediaeval France and England. For Harlequin (Harlechin, Hellequin, etc., are all variations of the same word) appears first in history or legend as an aerial spectre or demon, leading that ghostly nocturnal cortège known as the Wild Hunt.
    —Enid Welsford,
The Fool: His Social and Literary History
,
London, 1934
     
PRINCE PHILIP OPENS DREAM FLATS IN W.10
    Trains roared behind a VIP canopy, the sun popped out suddenly and children whistled from the rooftops when the Duke of Edinburgh arrived in dreary North Kensington on Tuesday afternoon [to open] Pepler House, the biggest project to date by the Kensington Housing Trust.
    Kensington Post
, 12 November, 1965

1. THE DOG-FIGHT MISSILE DESIGNED TO DOMINATE ITS DECADE
    Jerry struggled into his pink tweed Cardin suit. The waistcoat was a little tight and he had to undo the shoulder holster by a notch but otherwise he looked as sharp as he had always done. He pulled his needler free and checked that the magazine was full, each hollow dart containing a neat 50ccs of Librium: a perfect hunting charge. He smoothed his long, fine hair about his face as he stood in front of the looking-glass, well satisfied, in the circumstances, with his appearance. He checked his watches. Both waited at zero. He crossed his wrists and started the watches. The hands moved at a steady rate.
    “Pretty,” he said. He smirked. He faced the room, squinting in the glare from the white, plastic furniture, the neon, the ivory walls. He took mirror shades from his top pocket and slid them over his eyes. He sighed. “Nifty.”
    He sailed out into the currents of the day, high on painkillers and a sense of his own immortality, swinging his hips to the sound of ‘Eleanor Rigby’ from the receiver built into his unfashionably rigid collar, down Holland Park Avenue beneath the tall spring trees, stepping wide on two-inch cuban heels. The bravest dandy of them all: he had a smile for everybody. Under his breath he sang along with John, George, Paul and Ringo and turned right into Campden Hill Square where his great big Duesenberg, chocolate and cream, waited for him alone. He unlocked the door, slid behind the wheel, started the perfect supercharged straight-8, let go the brakes and was on the move. A masterpiece to equal any one of its European contemporaries, the 1930 SJ Torpedo Phaeton was the most elegant car America had ever produced. Euphorically, both mind and body in ecstatic unity, he cruised between the labouring corpse-wagons which parted so that he could pass through them, as if by divine command. He offered a friendly wave to all he overtook, then he reached the top of Ladbroke Grove’s hill and began the descent into the mythical netherworld of Notting Dale. The road was suddenly almost deserted; sounds were muffled; the sun was hotter.
    Turning right into Westbourne Park Road he stopped outside the main gate of the Convent of the Poor Clares. He did not bother to lock the car. He knew he could rely on its aura to protect it.
    Sister Eugenia, the Mother Superior, herself greeted Jerry as she opened the grilled steel door which led directly into the shadowy Visitors’ Chapel with its hideous green, yellow and pink Crucifixion above the green marble tiles, the brass, the tasselled purple of the altar. She spoke in carefully modulated tones like a consultant psychiatrist and when she smiled it was sweet and good. Jerry admired her smile in particular, as he admired professionalism wherever he found it.
    “Father Jeremiah.” She gestured for him to precede her while she supervised the tender young novice locking the gate. They followed single-file behind him as he headed through the side exit and onto a gravel path, making for the main building, smelling the air, admiring the blooms and the well-kept lawns, the peculiar, ingrown dwarf elms. He was not sure but he thought he heard, somewhere in the chapel on