My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music. My pleasures are the most intense known to man: writing and butterfly hunting.

It’s Nabokov, being droll yet again, all as a result of the last item on a list of loathings and pleasures.

This is really this chinoiserie. Last year, we, about this time, we premiered a new suite titled The Afro-Eurasian Eclipse. And of course the title was inspired by a statement made by a Mr. Marshall McLuhan of the University of Toronto. Mr. McLuhan says that the whole world is going oriental and that no one will be able to retain his or her identity, not even the orientals. And of course, we travel around the world, a lot, and in the last five or six years we too have noticed this thing to be true. So as a result, we have done a sort of a thing, a parallel or something, and we’d like to play a little piece of it for you.

In this particular segment, ladies and gentlemen, we have adjusted our perspective to that of the kangaroo and the didgeridoo. This automatically throws us either down under and/or out back, and from that point of view it’s most improbable that anyone will ever know exactly who is enjoying the shadow of whom.

Harold Ashby has been inducted into the responsibility and the obligation of possibly scraping off a tiny bit of the charisma of his chinoiserie, immediately after our piano player has completed his rikki-tikki.

Let’s also say a car tyre has a diameter of 60 cms and a monster truck tyre a diameter of 100 cms.

Now, the unexpected bit:

If we were to wrap a piece of string exactly once around the tennis ball, how much more string would we need to do the same thing around the basketball?

In the same way, if we were to wrap a piece of string exactly once around the car tyre, how much more string would we need to do the same thing around the monster truck tyre?

Believe it or not, in both cases it’s 40π cms, or approximately 126 cms!

Our intuition doesn’t like it, but even if you were to wrap a string around the Earth and then a second string around the Earth 20 cms higher than ground level (which  would increases the diameter of the circle formed by 40 cms), the difference in string length would still be 40π cms!

It feels deep in our bones like the increase in string length would be a whole lot more pronounced for the Earth-circling situation than the tyre-circling situation, yet it’s exactly the same, and here’s the maths that proves it:

Because c (circumference) = πd (diameter), whenever the radius increases by a length of x metres, the circumference will always be c = π(d + x) = πd + πx.

This means that when the diameter of a circle increases by a length of x centrimetres, the circumference is increased by πx centimetres — which is completely independent of the original circumference or radius of the circle in question!

And when we fill in the formula for the situations cited above, we’ve always got a πx cms = 40π cms ≈ 126 cms difference in circumference.

Honestly, instead of ‘like a normal feature of the present’ I almost wrote ‘without ever being inscribed within the interior of the present’. That’s how much I’ve been submerged in contemporary French nonfiction. I frequently have to stop and ask myself how a human being might put the same idea.

Curiously, it (the immune system) is also prepared to deal with chemical molecules normally contained in healthy cells in the body that can become dangerous to the organism when released from dying cells into the internal milieu (eg breakdown of hyaluron; glutamate).

The uncle in question was called Palamède, a Christian name that had come down to him from his ancestors the Princes of Sicily. And later on, when I found, in the course of my historical reading, belonging to this or that Podestà or Prince of the Church, the same Christian name, a fine renaissance medal–some said a genuine antique–that had always remained in the family, having passed from generation to generation, from the Vatican cabinet to the uncle of my friend, I felt the pleasure that is reserved for those who, unable from lack of means to start a medal collection or a picture gallery, look out for old names (names of localities, instructive and picturesque as an old map, a bird’s-eye view, a sign-board or a return of customs; baptismal names whose fine French endings echo the defect of speech, the intonation of an ethnic vulgarity, the corrupt pronunciation whereby our ancestors made Latin and Saxon words undergo lasting mutilations which in due course became the august law-givers of our grammar books) and, in short, by drawing upon their collections of ancient sonorities, give themselves concerts like the people who acquire viols da gamba and viols d’amour so as to perform the music of the past on old instruments.

The uncle for whom we were waiting
was called Palamède, a name that had come down to him from his
ancestors, the Princes of Sicily.  And later on when I found, as I
read history, belonging to this or that Podestà or Prince of the
Church, the same Christian name, a fine renaissance medal--some said,
a genuine antique--that had always remained in the family, having
passed from generation to generation, from the Vatican cabinet to the
uncle of my friend, I felt the pleasure that is reserved for those
who, unable from lack of means to start a case of medals, or a picture
gallery, look out for old names (names of localities, instructive and
picturesque as an old map, a bird's-eye view, a sign-board or a return
of customs; baptismal names, in which rings out and is plainly heard,
in their fine French endings, the defect of speech, the intonation of
a racial vulgarity, the vicious pronunciation by which our ancestors
made Latin and Saxon words undergo lasting mutilations which in due
course became the august law-givers of our grammar books) and, in
short, by drawing upon their collections of ancient and sonorous
words, give themselves concerts like the people who acquire viols da
gamba and viols d'amour so as to perform the music of days gone by
upon old-fashioned instruments.

I also like sarcoma, now that I’ve encountered it.

Bob hawke once argued that the most important decision in Australia’s first hundred years was to become, from the late 1940s, a nation of mass immigration. Since the program’s inception Australia has accepted about seven million migrants, the highest per capita in the world outside of Israel. At the end of the Howard years, one in four Australians had been born overseas compared with a much lower figure of 10 per cent for the United States, testimony to Australia’s remarkable acceptance of people from around the world.

In 1949, Labor Prime Minister Chifley, in the Nationality and Citizenship Act, created the term ‘Australian citizen’ (prior to this Australians were merely British subjects), and created an Australian passport to replace the British passport that Australians until then had carried on overseas travel. In 1949, incoming Liberal Prime Minister Menzies revoked the Australian passport, and until 1973 Australians continued to carry a passport labelled ‘British passport’.

I just thought I’d second the following:

1. White Noise by Don Delillo;
2. The Rainbow by DH Lawrence;
3. On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

Honourable mentions (books that are good but not that good):

1. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez;
2. The Road by Cormac McCarthy.