The Past

The Voyagers

I stumble this extract on a book I was reading for tomorrow's Popular Text class and thought, I ought to share this. I wonder how many of you can relate to this?

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Here in the airport lounge, how becalmed we voyagers are, all spellbound and dreambound! How equable this climate – this mild, well-regulated air, untouched by frost or torrid heat, or the bite or chilling wind! Suspended between Somewhere and Elsewhere, we bask in the Light of Anywhere. It is a place where fantasies luxuriate. As our feet wander the mute and carpeted acres, our eyes flit speculatively among figures and faces. Look, now, at this man coming towards us. His neat blue suit proclaims the businessman, but who knows what underworlds of espionage, what services to a secret cause are implicated in that brief-case? Those policemen at the boarding gate are tensely waiting for the two drug-trafficking Mafiosi to show up. That woman’s elegance, ever so slightly ruffled – for her silk scarf hangs negligently, and she has just dropped a glove – tells is that she is on her way to meet her lover, the American neurosurgeon, who will never marry her as long as his demented wife (of whom she has no knowledge) still lingers on in the expensive Swiss clinic. Here we all are, in this Land of In-Between. We are characters in enjoyably bad books, it seems. We are in the right place for Popular Fiction.


Walter Nash, The language of Popular Fiction, 1990.
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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What's There To Live For?

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In that tiny coffee shop, her life stops while she is watching the others go by, walking their lives away as they cross the street. Tomorrow does not really matter. For now, she is at peace; away from her thoughts that once in a while greets her and whisper death; but then it is there to remind her how bad she wants to live. In that coffee shop, she smiles at the idea of we all just advanced monkey on a minor planet of a very average star. Earth is an average star, can you imagine that? She murmurs, will that make her worry is smaller than dust, smaller than the smallest matter which almost equal to nothing?

One table away from where she sits, there are two mothers looking profoundly happy as they cleaned up their children's drool. The look in their eyes proclaims as if their source of happiness is right there, in the wet drools, loud hysterical cries and saint-like laughters. They seem they have ended 'the search', you know, the exploration on finding happiness. She thinks, maybe she ought to have a baby, too. As she sits less than a feet away, in the complete opposite state; young, lost and confused as one can be. But then again, if the search is over, what's there to live for?
A piece by : Fiya Muiz
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