I don't know but what you are right. We intend to make a big thing out of you, Dick Rover. / How? / I told you before you'd find out soon enough. / I presume you'll try to make my father ransom me, or something like that.
I don't know but what you are right. We intend to make a big thing out of you, Dick Rover.
How?
I told you before you'd find out soon enough.
I presume you'll try to make my father ransom me, or something like that.
In recognition of the charge of chilly, mechanized disembodiment often leveled at network theory and posthumanist philosophy, I propose to fleshify world literature's map, taking flesh as a tactile figure for both the materiality of inscription and the affective sensorium that pulses through the written.
That said, it produces a great comic creation in Alan Dixon (Richard Kane), a splendidly Pooterish middle-aged clerk, fixated with unctuous reverence on the activities of British royalty and the aristocracy, including one or two of the firm's clients.
I finally got the vents back from the chrome shop. / Now you're in business!
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