2
" This time, something different happens, though. It’s the daydreaming that does it. I’m doing the usual
thing—imagining in tiny detail the entire course of the relationship, from first kiss, to bed, to moving in
together, to getting married (in the past I have even organized the track listing of the party tapes), to how
pretty she’ll look when she’s pregnant, to names of children—until suddenly I realize that there’s
nothing left to actually, like, happen. I’ve done it all, lived through the whole relationship in my head.
I’ve watched the film on fast-forward; I know the whole plot, the ending, all the good bit. Now I’ve got
to rewind and watch it all over again in real time, and where’s the fun in that?
And fucking … when’s it all going to fucking stop? I’m going to jump from rock to rock for the rest of
my life until there aren’t any rocks left? I’m going to run each time I get itchy feet? Because I get them
about once a quarter, along with the utilities bills. More than that, even, during British Summer Time.
I’ve been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, between you and
me, I have come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains. "
― Nick Hornby , High Fidelity
3
" But unfortunately you get no further by merely wishing class-distinctions
away. More exactly, it is necessary to wish them away, but your wish has no
efficacy unless you grasp what it involves. The fact that has got to be faced is
that to abolish class-distinctions means abolishing a part of yourself. Here am
I, a typical member of the middle class. It is easy for me to say that I want to
get rid of class-distinctions, but nearly everything I think and do is a result of
class-distinctions. All my notions –notions of good and evil, of pleasant and unpleasant,
of funny and serious, of ugly and beautiful–are essentially middle-class
notions; my taste in books and food and clothes, my sense of honour, my table
manners, my turns of speech, my accent, even the characteristic movements of
my body, are the products of a special kind of upbringing and a special niche
about half-way up the social hierarchy. "
― George Orwell , The Road to Wigan Pier
