I think it's a plug from Andrew Marr (the BBC's political correspondent, retired) for his new book, "I Hate Them". Extract:
"They are in their twenties, probably lovers, certainly unmarried. He wears a thin grey jersey and leather trousers, with carefully maintained stubble and wraparound shades, despite the dim light. She is Japanese, dressed in a bright plastic jacket, child colours, unsmiling. They are standing among a scattering of domestic electric detritus on a polished floor. They exchange a look, impossible to interpret. The man mutters and they move on, glancing at a book he holds... All around there are people like them, all part of a modern tribe, a vast nomadic group, mostly young, urban, clever, a little intimidating, given to expensive hodden clothes and rimless glasses. They speak a dialect closely related to that of neighbouring peoples, but studded with other names - Ofili, Opie, Sensation-Apocalypse, Takahashi. And anyway, they are not voluble, as they stand in front of inscrutable images or slow, silent films. They seem poised. They treasure silence. I am talking, obviously, of the followers of contemporary art... I hate them. It is time to elbow them aside and fill up the galleries with the rest of us."
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Re: the dorks and the poonanies
Date: 2005-08-26 01:06 pm (UTC)I think it's a plug from Andrew Marr (the BBC's political correspondent, retired) for his new book, "I Hate Them". Extract:
"They are in their twenties, probably lovers, certainly unmarried. He wears a thin grey jersey and leather trousers, with carefully maintained stubble and wraparound shades, despite the dim light. She is Japanese, dressed in a bright plastic jacket, child colours, unsmiling. They are standing among a scattering of domestic electric detritus on a polished floor. They exchange a look, impossible to interpret. The man mutters and they move on, glancing at a book he holds... All around there are people like them, all part of a modern tribe, a vast nomadic group, mostly young, urban, clever, a little intimidating, given to expensive hodden clothes and rimless glasses. They speak a dialect closely related to that of neighbouring peoples, but studded with other names - Ofili, Opie, Sensation-Apocalypse, Takahashi. And anyway, they are not voluble, as they stand in front of inscrutable images or slow, silent films. They seem poised. They treasure silence. I am talking, obviously, of the followers of contemporary art... I hate them. It is time to elbow them aside and fill up the galleries with the rest of us."