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My childhood is streets upon streets upon streets upon streets. streets to define you and streets to confine you, with no sign of motorway, freeway or highway.
-Steven Morrissey
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My Childhood Is Streets Upon Streets Upon

Steven Morrissey
My childhood is streets upon streets upon streets upon streets. streets to define you and streets to confine you, with no sign of motorway, freeway or highway.
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Childhood Highways Streets

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The freeway experience ... is the only secular communion los angeles has. mere driving on the freeway is in no way the same as participating in it. anyone can "drive" on the freeway, and many people with no vocation for it do, hesitating here and resisting there, losing the rhythm of the lane change, thinking about where they came from and where they are going. actual participation requires total surrender, a concentration so intense as to seem a kind of narcosis, a rapture-of-the-freeway. the mind goes clean. the rhythm takes over.
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When i look back on my childhood i wonder how i survived at all. it was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable irish catholic childhood.
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A sign, or representamen, is something which stands to somebody for something in some respect or capacity. it addresses somebody,that is, creates in the mind of that person an equivalent sign, or perhaps a more developed sign. that sign which it creates i call the interpretant of the first sign. the sign stands for something, its object. it stands for that object, not in all respects, but in reference to a sort of idea, which i have sometimes called the ground of the representamen.
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I don't know that i could really define love. i can't . . . again, it's like trying to define what this creative force is. it's beyond my ability to really define. if i can define it, then it's not it. we're right back to that thing again.
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If thy words be too luxuriant, confine them, lest they confine thee; he that thinks he never can speak enough may easily speak too much. a full tongue and an empty brain are seldom parted.
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O your life, your lonely lifewhat have you ever done with it,and done with the great gift of consciousness?what will you ever do before death's knifeprovides the answer ultimate and appropriate?as i for my part felt in my heart as one who falls,falls in a parachute, falls endlessly, and feels the vastdraft of the abyss sucking him down and down,an endlessly helplessly falling and appalled clown:this is the way the night passes by, thisis the overnight endless trip to the famous unfathomable abyss.
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