Selling those old books freed up most of the spare room.
There was a lavatory at the end of the garden beyond a scraggy clump of Michaelmas daisies that never looked well in themselves, always sere, never blooming, the perennial ghosts of themselves, as if ill-nourished by an exhausted soil.
They fancy that every thought must needs have an immediate outward suggestment.
I think this was true at Cranbrook, where after a certain point there seemed to be a sense of manifest destiny, that all design history was leading up to this glorious moment where every message, regardless of its content, could now be collaged with a quote from a French structuralist, a diagram of an electrical circuit, and a Photoshopped image of the back of someone's head, and that the very nature of communication would thus be transformed.
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