Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow! Oh, I am sure Ian Gorham has a tale to tell, but he is not an idiot, so there will be no sound and fury, signifying nothing, not from him at any rate. Maybe from me. I mean, that's what I specialize in.
That doesn't mean I consider myself an idiot. I have self-knowledge. I know my abilities. And it is quite obvious - even to the casual observer - that I am only one consciousness expansion away from becoming a god. No, it just means I am aware of the fact that the greatest literature is the literature that has nothing to say. It merely exists, floating above our dirty realities, clean, pure, and untouchable.
I start off in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. I often stay there. But I try to drag myself out. Occasionally, I hit the heights. I reach for the stars, and I am successful. In fact: 'Love is a dying star heavier than the sun.' My favourite! [But no fury.]
What's the greatest line Mallarme ever wrote? In the English translation: 'Naked golds thrashing crimson space'. It seems to mean nothing, but it is a line, written by a master, signifying everything. [But no fury.]
I hope I'm right about Ian Gorham. If he could speak to us now, what would he say? Would he echo the words of Peter Hargreaves, that the company is extremely well placed to build on the momentum that has been generated so far? And would we be satisfied with that? Or would we be driven to anger? [Fury from our mouths?]
On reflection, I hope I'm wrong about Ian Gorham. Let him prove himself! Maybe he should utter something along these lines [oh, he will, with sound and a bit of fury]: 'I find myself in a position at Hargreaves Lansdown which is very pleasing. I feel like an angel with a brand new harp. I ... [not bad, let it slip] ... I feel like a big piece of cheese on a small plate, on a table, surrounded by hungry mice whose tails have been nailed to that table. They can't touch me. Let alone eat me. So I'm not exactly worried about the situation, although I suppose there is a chance the farmer's wife will release them at some point. Yes, I'm in a farmhouse, on a plate, on a table, in the kitchen. Maybe it's not the mice I should be worried about. How the fuck did I get myself into this? One minute I'm in the office at Hargreaves Lansdown, surfing the net, then the next minute - urged on by that absolute lunatic financial shaman bloke - I find myself lost in inner space, in a farmhouse, posing as a piece of cheese. What does it all mean?'
It means nothing, Ian, mate. Nothing at all. Well done!
That doesn't mean I consider myself an idiot. I have self-knowledge. I know my abilities. And it is quite obvious - even to the casual observer - that I am only one consciousness expansion away from becoming a god. No, it just means I am aware of the fact that the greatest literature is the literature that has nothing to say. It merely exists, floating above our dirty realities, clean, pure, and untouchable.
I start off in the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart. I often stay there. But I try to drag myself out. Occasionally, I hit the heights. I reach for the stars, and I am successful. In fact: 'Love is a dying star heavier than the sun.' My favourite! [But no fury.]
What's the greatest line Mallarme ever wrote? In the English translation: 'Naked golds thrashing crimson space'. It seems to mean nothing, but it is a line, written by a master, signifying everything. [But no fury.]
I hope I'm right about Ian Gorham. If he could speak to us now, what would he say? Would he echo the words of Peter Hargreaves, that the company is extremely well placed to build on the momentum that has been generated so far? And would we be satisfied with that? Or would we be driven to anger? [Fury from our mouths?]
On reflection, I hope I'm wrong about Ian Gorham. Let him prove himself! Maybe he should utter something along these lines [oh, he will, with sound and a bit of fury]: 'I find myself in a position at Hargreaves Lansdown which is very pleasing. I feel like an angel with a brand new harp. I ... [not bad, let it slip] ... I feel like a big piece of cheese on a small plate, on a table, surrounded by hungry mice whose tails have been nailed to that table. They can't touch me. Let alone eat me. So I'm not exactly worried about the situation, although I suppose there is a chance the farmer's wife will release them at some point. Yes, I'm in a farmhouse, on a plate, on a table, in the kitchen. Maybe it's not the mice I should be worried about. How the fuck did I get myself into this? One minute I'm in the office at Hargreaves Lansdown, surfing the net, then the next minute - urged on by that absolute lunatic financial shaman bloke - I find myself lost in inner space, in a farmhouse, posing as a piece of cheese. What does it all mean?'
It means nothing, Ian, mate. Nothing at all. Well done!
