About: Beach Scene

Description
Metadata
Settings
- owl:sameAs
- Inference Rule:

About: Beach Scene Sponge Permalink

An Entity of Type : owl:Thing, within Data Space : 134.155.108.49:8890 associated with source dataset(s)

I used to write a lot, a long time ago. I wrote all sorts of things: a diary, poems, letters, stories, and all my own advertising copy. It was pretty good, too. One thing you could say about it, it wasn’t stuff anybody else could have written. The third time began when I woke up in the hospital. Waking up took a long time, actually. I wasn’t all there, and in some ways I’m still not. So I’m jotting something down one day when she says, Nancy, you should write a story. A story? Well, I can’t refuse her anything. So here it is. It’s even true.

Attributes	Values
rdfs:label	Beach Scene
rdfs:comment	I used to write a lot, a long time ago. I wrote all sorts of things: a diary, poems, letters, stories, and all my own advertising copy. It was pretty good, too. One thing you could say about it, it wasn’t stuff anybody else could have written. The third time began when I woke up in the hospital. Waking up took a long time, actually. I wasn’t all there, and in some ways I’m still not. So I’m jotting something down one day when she says, Nancy, you should write a story. A story? Well, I can’t refuse her anything. So here it is. It’s even true.
dcterms:subject	Fandom
abstract	I used to write a lot, a long time ago. I wrote all sorts of things: a diary, poems, letters, stories, and all my own advertising copy. It was pretty good, too. One thing you could say about it, it wasn’t stuff anybody else could have written. But that was the first time around. The second time I didn’t write much at all except when I had to. I wrote essays at Girton and reports for the Met and for the BL, and they were as good as everything else I did. But they weren’t really important and I didn’t write anything else. Writing things down then was too dangerous, anyhow; writing has a way of getting into the wrong hands. I had a lot to hide: from him, from her, even from myself. The third time began when I woke up in the hospital. Waking up took a long time, actually. I wasn’t all there, and in some ways I’m still not. The questions started as soon as I got coherent enough to understand them. Then they got a bright idea, or rather took an old one from the Communist long interrogation technique. They gave me a notebook and said: write your life story for us, please. She put a stop to all that, thank God. Joseph Carpenter decided he could still use me, even if he couldn’t trust me. But it got me into the writing habit again. I still keep notebooks. The memories come back in bits and pieces, like planks from a sunken ship washing up on shore, and when they do I write them down. Perhaps some day I’ll have enough to make a person out of them. They’re all I really have—or almost all. So I’m jotting something down one day when she says, Nancy, you should write a story. A story? Well, I can’t refuse her anything. So here it is. It’s even true.

OpenLink Virtuoso version 07.20.3217, on Linux (x86_64-pc-linux-gnu), Standard Edition
Data on this page belongs to its respective rights holders.
Virtuoso Faceted Browser Copyright © 2009-2012 OpenLink Software