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I don’t really know if it was the flimsies or the dinner but I’ve often noticed that there is a moment when a man develops enough confidence and ease in a relationship to bore you to death.

My sister is small, light, beautiful, with no hips and perfect breasts. I am fifteen pounds overweight, which I can forget sometimes until my sister appears. I am sort of invincible looking and I never display any of those womanly qualities so praised through the ages, like modesty, tact, or sweet vulnerability. My sister, on the other hand, always looks as though her favorite kitten just got run over.

The Blackboard is a big ordinary room, not too organized, and you don’t have to pay to get in or anything. There’s a stage where a kind of charming-looking band plays country songs, there’s a nice big dance floor, there are tables and chairs, and opposite from the stage running the whole length of the room is a bar. A cop at the door asked for my I.D.—a wonderful moment.

I stedet for en opprinnelig identitet som fungerer som en bestemmende årsak, kan kjønnsidentiteten forstås som en personlig/kulturell historie om alminnelig anerkjente betydninger som er underlagt et sett av etterlignende praksiser som henviser til andre, tilsvarende etterligninger, og som til sammen konstruerer illusjonen om et primært og innvendig kjønnet selv, eller som parodierer mekanismen bak den konstruksjonen.

– Det er i hvert fall midt ute på havet, så vi slipper de fordømte stearinlysene deres ..., brummet Bruno oppgitt; bemerkningen overrasket Paul, men også han var blitt kvalm av alle de levende lysene, ballongene, diktene, «Hatet mitt får dere aldri» og sånne ting den gangen islamistene herjet som verst. Han fant det legitimt å hate jihadistene og ønske at de ble skutt ned i haugevis og gjerne bidra til det om det skulle trenges, hevnlysten forekom ham å være en i høy grad passende reaksjon.

[H]an følte seg som en flatklemt ølboks under en britisk hooligans føtter, eller som en gjenglemt biff i grønnsakskuffen i et billig kjøleskap, kort sagt følte han seg ikke bra.

I godt over førti års alder hadde hun inntrykk av å oppdage klassekampen; det var en merkelig følelse, ubehagelig, litt skitten, hun ville gjerne ha vært den foruten.

I bunn og grunn hadde han ingen innvendinger mot ødeleggelsen av en sædbank. Tanken på å kjøpe sæd og i det hele tatt begi seg ut i forplantning uten engang å ha det seksuelle begjæret som påskudd, eller kjærligheten eller en annen følelse av samme orden, det sto for ham som kvalmende, rett og slett.

Paul nikket med en blanding av anger og begeistring, det moret ham å opptre i rollen som moderne idiot fordervet av Nettlegen, besatt av konspirasjonsteorier og fake news, han følte seg klar for litt av hvert i dette øyeblikket for å roe ned overlegen.

Jon Savage: The Eurythmics made a couple of terrific pop records, and then they went all authentic and started making really shit records. As soon as those groups stopped making synth pop, they all turned to shit.

The filming was interrupted at one point by an old man walking his dog, looking for driftwood. [David] Mallet asked him if he wouldn’t mind moving, and pointed out Bowie sitting outside the catering van. ‘Do you know who this is’ he asked? Sharp as a tack, the old man responded with, ‘Of course I do. It’s some cunt in a clown suit.’ Sometime later, Bowie remembered, ‘That was a huge moment for me. It put me back in my place and made me realise, “Yes, I’m just a cunt in a clown suit.”’ [Fra innspillingen av «Ashes to Ashes»-videoen.]

Steve Strange: I ran a very tight ship in terms of my door policy. I wanted creative-minded pioneers there who looked like a walking piece of art, not some drunken, beery lads. The best move I made was turning Mick Jagger away at the door. He was wearing trainers.

Malcolm McLaren: Rotten had terrible shoulders. Round and flabby Irish shoulders. And his body was the shape of a pear. But in the clothes that we gave him he always looked wonderful. He was a wonderful mannequin for the clothes that Vivienne [Westwood] and I designed for him. He complained about them, of course. I sold a lot of trousers off the back of Johnny Rotten.

I see these distinctions in a way I was unable to twenty years back, because I was caught up in a narrow margin among people who read only a handful of books, and of a certain kind: Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm, The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll, some Bukowski, some Burroughs, You Can’t Win by Jack Black, and [Denis] Johnson’s 1992 story collection Jesus’ Son. We were young bohemians who thought you were supposed to live like that.

Jeg vil da reflektere over de kulturelle forskjellenes natur, slik de blir konstruert i ulike diskurser, og jeg bør nok begynne med å advare om at jeg kommer til å bruke termen diskurs ad nauseam for noen.

Morfar sa att [Ingmar] Bergman var en borgerlig kverulant, orädd för avföring men feg för politik. Visst, sa pappa, det förstår sig mästerregissören på. Och pattar.

The biggest name to emerge from the New York scene was Moby, who in 1991 had reached No. 10 on the British chart with a rave-inspired dance track called “Go”. (This was a kind of triple crossover: a British hit by an American producer inspired by a British scene built on an American genre.)

But I can’t help but wince when people talk about hip-hop as the high-minded, Pulitzer Prize-winning genre they feel it should be, rather than the rowdy and messy genre it usually has been. And I wince partly because I’m not sure that a purely high-minded version of hip-hop would have lasted so long, or spread so far, or inspired so many. Kendrick Lamar’s rhymes are studied in school—quite rightly, too. But surely hip-hop benefits from the continuing existence of rappers whose music doesn’t sound remotely like homework.