Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
The Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral at night about 40 minutes after sunset _22A9031
Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
The Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral at night about 40 minutes after sunset _22A9037a
Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
The Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral at night about 40 minutes after sunset _22A9027
Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
The Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral at night about 40 minutes after sunset _22A9025
Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
Southwark Bridge and light trails from a tour boat. _22A9017
Nigel Blake, 13 MILLION...Yay! Many thanks! posted a photo:
Number 1 London Bridge street sunset reflected in the mirror glass windows _22A8997
Elon Musk Makes Self-Driving Machines -- Yet Fears A Possible Robot Takeover Daily Caller Musk's plan to produce what amounts to a self-perpetuating technology appears to run counter to his campaign against artificial intelligence. He used his wealth and cache as a leading figure in technological innovations, for instance, to fund a ... and more » |
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Image shot handheld whilst walking back to the van from Westminster Bridge yesterday morning. Really starting to warm to cityscape photography and there seems like endless possibilities in the city, at either end of the day. At the moments its preferable to a two hour drive to the east coast for sunrise (but only Just(!))
Thanks for viewing, Just getting to architectural photography so any feedback welcome :-)
From Scandinavian crime to Elena Ferrante and Karl Ove Knausagaard, it's boom time for foreign fiction in the UK. But the right translation is crucial, says Rachel Cooke, while, below, some of the best translators tell us their secrets
Last year, I decided to treat myself to a new copy of Bonjour Tristesse by Françoise Sagan, a novel I have loved ever since I first read it as a teenager, and whose dreamy opening line in its original translation from the French by Irene Ash “A strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sadness” I know by heart. But which one to get? In the end, I decided to go for something entirely new and ritzy, which is how I came to buy the Penguin Modern Classics edition, translated by Heather Lloyd.
Some days later, in bed, I began reading it. The shock was tremendous, disorienting. “This strange new feeling of mine, obsessing me by its sweet languor, is such that I am reluctant to dignify it with the fine, solemn name of ‘sadness',” went the first sentence, which sounded to my ears a little as though a robot had written it. For a while I pressed on, telling myself it was stupid to cling to only one version, as if it were a sacred thing, and that perhaps I would soon fall in love with this no doubt very clever and more accurate new translation. Pretty soon, though, I gave up. However syntactically correct it might be, the prose had for me lost all of its magic. It was as if I'd gone out to buy a silk party dress and come home with a set of nylon overalls.
Continue reading...The family-friendly machine massacre returns to the small screen, while the story of Saddam Hussein's vanity picture starring Oliver Reed can finally be told
8pm, BBC2
The rebooted Wars roars on to BBC2 as Sir Killalot and co prowl the fibreglass-walled arena once more. Other than new host Dara O Briain, little has changed. Technical tubthumping is often followed by a team accidentally driving their expensively kitted bot into a hole, while wry smiles result from the grizzled robo-voiceover growling things like “Hemel Hempstead”. Indeed, little has been done to remove the show from the rut that saw the original series cancelled. Mark Gibbings-Jones
These memorable months of terrible massacres, Brexit and political upheaval will mark our culture as indelibly as the summer of love in 1967
Now is the summer of our discontent. The summer of rained-off barbecues, racist trams, death. Of padding into meetings in sodden sandals, and throwing down our notebook with a massive: “Oh what does it matter anyway, everything's gone to cock.” If 1967 was the summer of love, then 2016 will go down as the summer of shit.
In 40 years' time, your grandchildren will ask where you were when Britain prolapsed. I say ask, I mean enquire online, prodding the question into the “Contact me” page on your Pokémon profile with the robot they use for a hand. There will be commemorative plates with a poignant message in Latin and that photo of Nigel Farage drinking a big pint. They will become highly collectable, one appearing on the New Antiques Roadshow to gasps of fond recognition. Ah, the old people will croak at home, but nobody will hear them over the outside roar of burning books and their tent flaps banging. In what was once London, there will be a museum where you can actually have a go on the real Boris zip wire, landing in a little hell-pit at the end, for the photo-opp. The Brexit bus will do tours of the former United Kingdom, stopping at the original Poundland in Burton-upon-Trent, the once thriving company bought out last week at a bargain price to the delight of metaphor hunters everywhere. If you book a ride in advance you get a bag of broken biscuits for the journey. Sharing is discouraged.
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