“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





20 May 2017


"Hey Daphne, don't go over there! Let's hang here in the shade at Unca Philip's ... " 

Just a few of the ewes now eating the vineyard weeds and grasses in the vineyard outside my back door. Sure beats Roundup! 

This was a few days back; the peerie lambies are since beginning to pop; the ravens are mobbing to feast on placentas or any poor soul that arrives imperfect and weak. They're brutal reminders of the brevity of real life. 

I love having the sheep around. They are not stupid. They watch me through my windows. 

They think I'm stupid.

This lass matter-of-factly dropped her twins on the lawn while I made coffee this morning. She cleaned them up, ensured they could walk, seemed to advise them to take a wee snooze after their ordeal, and got straight back to eating grass and making milk ... Mr Ears, bigger one, left, has a black nose and knees ... cute as fuck ... photos©Philip White

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

they look like footy socks whiteman