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OW Fuck

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Ow Fuck

나는 세상이다
너도 세상이다
오 그러면 너도 나도
이 Fuck 가는 세상
한번 놀아보자
https://youtu.be/GGjEMLJ06vI

Ow!"Ripple jerks his head and slap at the collar"Fuck! It  bit me! OW! Fuck!
Why does it keep doing that?
Ow! Fuck! It fucking hurts!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYJYwhiY9GQ

https://youtu.be/R6AeZQfeoZ4

Ow Fuck!

In a hospital, surrounded by family, Dahl reassured everyone, sweetly, that he wasn't afraid of death. "It's just that I will miss you all so much," he said-the perfect final words. Then ,as


So that’s where the magic happens – the Vermicious Knids, Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, and the dreadful end of Veruca Salt. It’s a small brick outhouse, lined with nicotine-stained polystyrene tiles, a workroom guarded by a preliminary vestibule. There is a hideous old armchair with a hole cut in the back and a writing board laid across the arms. There are pictures of schooldays and children, and objects with a definite medical flavour – a hipbone on the desk, an artificial hip as a handle for a drawer, and on the wall a small cerebral valve, which it turns out the inhabitant helped invent. His last Marlboro sits in the ashtray, and the wastepaper bin is unemptied, though he died 21 years ago.


You will probably have identified this as Roald Dahl’s writing hut, which last week came to our attention when his granddaughter Sophie Dahl talked about it on the Today programme. She said that the family hoped to preserve the shed for the nation in the Roald Dahl museum in Great Missenden, and that &pound;500,000 was needed to fund the preservation and removal.


A certain amount of outrage followed, along the lines of “Why can’t she pay for it herself?” The museum was quick to point out that the money was coming from “organisations which support museums, literacy and creative education, as well as companies involved in the publishing and other licensing of Roald Dahl’s work”. It’s highly regrettable that funding by such bodies nowadays seems to be preferable to voluntary contributions by admirers. If I thought that the Roald Dahl Hut Preservation Movement would welcome it, I would very happily send them 20 quid. Some of Radio 4’s listeners might not want to contribute to this splendid cause, but it seems very odd to turn away those who would like to help out directly.


Another of Britain’s great writerly habitats also currently hangs in the balance. For decades, incredulous interviewers, tasked with profiling J G Ballard, would make their way out to Shepperton, where his semi-detached house took on a legendary quality. Not much dusted, it accumulated mysterious objects, including a lemon which apparently sat on the nursery mantelpiece for decades and a stainless steel palm tree in the sitting room. A broken-down car sat in the driveway; yellowing curtains hung in the slightly rusting windows.


Nothing, to the true aficionado, could be more Ballardian, and when the house went up for sale in July (described by the estate agent as “in need of renovation”), a group of enthusiasts discussed clubbing together to pay the &pound;320,000 asked, or demanding that the National Trust or English Heritage acquire it. When I talked to Will Self, an old friend and admirer of Ballard’s, he relished the prospect of maintaining the house exactly as it is, as “a kind of anti-Charleston or anti-Sissinghurst to get up the noses of aesthetes”.


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I share that strong distaste for a kind of interest in author’s houses that shades into property pornography: the Bloomsbury properties of Charleston and Sissinghurst are good examples. They are staggeringly lovely houses, but no writing of any real interest emerged from them, to be honest. When a writer “makes it”, and splashes his dosh on some rolling acres, he may very well find that ducal splendour doesn’t promote his writing abilities.

Somerset Maugham, the original novel-writing “shit in the shuttered chateau”, as Philip Larkin put it, used his fortune to buy the magnificent Villa Mauresque on the C&ocirc;te d’Azur. His study had a superb view over the grounds and the sea but, as Selina Hastings tells us in her fine biography, he quickly discovered he couldn’t write like that. The view was bricked up, and Maugham was returned, mentally, to the medical-student garrets in which he did his best work.

Whenever newspapers mount one of those “Writers’ Rooms” series, there is always something comically improbable about many of the results. All that boasting about custom-made desks and views over the treetops of a London square can hardly be conducive to serious imaginative gestation, and analysis will show that the more luxurious the premises, the worse the writer in practice. And yet we tend to be ashamed of our writing spaces. Taking part in one of these exercises, I amusingly heard from the photographer, who was openly unimpressed with the unglamorous circumstances in which I write, that another author had employed four men to work for a week before his study was elegant enough to be photographed.

The preserved rooms of great writers often have one thing in common: whoever worked in them made absolutely sure they could hear anyone approaching. There is nothing worse than the fear that someone will come up and peer over your shoulder at your writing, and writers have used all manner of stratagems to prevent this. We are told that Jane Austen, who had to work on a tiny card table, would never permit a squeaking door to be oiled; it gave her just enough notice to despatch her labours under a cushion.

Goethe’s house in Weimar, rebuilt to his specifications thanks to the generous local duke, meets this requirement to an exactitude. Visiting it, I was delighted to discover that I am not the first writer in the world to prefer the end of a dining-room table to a desk. And the layout of Goethe’s rooms is designed to cocoon him from disturbance: his study is embedded in ante-rooms, corridors and vestibules. He would have heard someone coming from a long way away.

Similarly, Dostoevsky’s flat in St Petersburg, though much smaller, is so contrived as to keep his working space as far from family and servant quarters as possible. In our modern world, a surprising number of novelists prefer to keep that kind of privacy by the simple stratagem of writing in bed, or, if they can stretch to it, in an attic room in a tall thin house where they can hear Coleridge’s “person from Porlock” toiling up the stairs long before they burst in.

The delusion of all of this, of course, is that if we lived like JG Ballard and worked like Roald Dahl, we too could produce an Atrocity Exhibition or a Matilda. It doesn’t quite work like that. But a visit to a great writer’s habitat will demonstrate, like nothing else, a creative mind turned inside out, the preoccupations and obsessions turned into tchotchkes littering up a desk. Half a million to preserve something of such fascination seems like small change.
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