I’ve been pretty slack lately but here’s a lil thing for cumiwhm's bday. What a babe.
The scene in which I confess to them is invented, imagined. And, in fact, could never have happened… .because Robbie Turner died of septicaemia at Bray Dunes on the first of June 1940, the last day of the evacuation…and I was never able to put things right with my sister Cecilia….because she was killed on the 15th of October 1940 by the bomb that destroyed the gas and water mains above Balham tube station.
make me choose: anon asked scott mccall or
“I am Andrew Ryan, and I am here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? ‘No,’ says the man in Washington, ‘it belongs to the poor.’ ‘No,’ says the man in the Vatican, ‘it belongs to God.’ ‘No,’ says the man in Moscow, ‘it belongs to everyone.’ I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well.”