Sod Morrissey, a bitter, old hasbeen who a couple of years ago told the Guardian that “it’s a relief to feel relaxed in more places than just one” (he has homes in Los Angeles, Rome, Switzerland and Britain) and who called the Chinese a “subspecies” for their treatment of animals.
The class that he now represents – a middle-aged, capital-rich, metropolitan elite – doesn’t give a toss about you. They’ve proved it in every way it is possible to prove.
The Queen is dead, boys, and it’s so lonely on a limb.
The literary canon is a largely imaginary list. (Also an expected one. When Encyclopedia Britannica rebooted its “Great Books of the Western World” series in 1990, it added zero works by people of color and works by only four women to its canon.) And while “classic” may be a nebulous term, in a published classics series, we have a set of material artifacts, thousands of them, all uniformly dressed—”in the familiar black livery” as Tonkin described it—all standing neatly in a row. Tonkin said he believed “that black jacket will still lend” the Autobiography “an unearned aura.” Is it that he just hasn’t earned it yet, baby? Or do we truly believe putting a Penguin on the cover of a book instantaneously confers status upon it?
…it has nothing to do with him as a person. I don’t know the guy. He could be a wonderful human being. I just don’t like the sound of his voice. I know plenty of guys in bands where I’m not a fan of their band, but I’m friends with them. It has nothing to do with Morrissey. I just can’t stand the actual tone, the pitch, the timbre, whatever other adjectives there are to describe it; it’s completely unappealing to me.