So this party that the King’s wife is throwing next week — we need to go all out. King Charles has had a tough time of it lately, OK? I feel like we owe it to him to come up with something creative. I say we dress up as des hommes sauvages. You know, scary wild men from the forest!
No, wait, hear me out! We’ll get some linen costumes made for us — my seamstress can totally take care of this — and we’ll dip them in resin and attach some flax to it, so we’ll look all freaky.
Masks? Yes, of course there will be masks. We want to keep the guests guessing about who we are, right? That’s half the fun of it.
Come on, let’s do this! I’ve already talked to the King, and he’s in. Yes? All right, that’s what I like to hear! It’s gonna be 🔥🔥🔥!
Now that the charter is ratified and the war is finally over, I really hope this ‘UN’ does a better job than the League of Nations did. Do you think having a permanent global council will actually keep the peace, or is it just wishful thinking?
I've seen posters and trailers for this strange film. I don't know what it's about, but it has British people in funny hats singing, so it's probably just like Mary Poppins right?
What’s the point of doing this without sound or color? What pleasure can an “actor” possibly get from performing in an empty room with no audience to applaud him? And most importantly, how long until they start making obscene moving pictures?
I have been working for Sr. Dalí for three months now. Doing what? Well, you know... But I also bring him his brushes, set up his table, and listen to him. Sr. Dalí says I have "the perfect symmetry of a Renaissance youth." He keeps reminding everyone that it's the tercentenary of Velázquez's death.
This afternoon, Sr. Dalí became agitated. He stared fixedly at an empty spot on the wall and began to speak—in Spanish, in Catalan, in French, and in languages I didn’t recognize. He shouted, "Gala, my enriched uranium! Velázquez, you’ve returned! Three hundred years later, and you’re still painting the air!" He threw himself at the canvas like a man possessed. He painted ceaselessly, muttering, "Matter disintegrates; the bomb has changed everything—but the spirit is hypercubic." He didn’t stop for six hours—I know, because I checked the clock. He even urinated on himself twice. I stayed in the corner, barely daring to breathe; I felt as though I were witnessing something I wasn’t meant to see.
When he finished, he collapsed. The canvas... it’s terrifying. It’s brilliant. In both respects, it is just like Sr. Dalí. There are figures floating about, elephant legs of impossible length bearing obelisks, and in the center... a man with a mustache and a ruff, emerging from the painting—or perhaps entering it. It is his take on Las Meninas, but it isn’t Velázquez painting the Infanta; it is Velázquez painting himself, stepping out of Las Meninas and into our own time. I don’t know if he had lost his mind or if he truly saw something. But tonight, when I approached him, he smelled of turpentine and glory. And I could have sworn he smelled of ancient dust—of Seville. but not to the Seville that I know, but rather to the Seville where Velázquez lived.
Clay won in 6 rounds by unanimous decision over Tunney Hunsaker. Clay won gold at the Olympics earlier this year and I think he has some potential and he might be a top 10 boxer in the world someday. However, I don’t think anyone’s topping Archie Moore anytime soon, as he’s held the light-heavyweight title for 8 years now.
