It had always been of the greatest importance to him, Ferber once remarked casually, that nothing should change at his place of work, that everything should remain as it was, as he had arranged it, and that nothing further should be added but the debris generated by painting and the dust that continuously fell and which, as he had come to realise, he loved more than anything else in the world.He felt closer to dust, he said, than to light , air or water. There was nothing he found so unbearable as a well-dusted house, and he never felt more at home than in places where things remained undisturbed, muted under the grey, velvety sinter left when matter dissolved, little by little into nothingness. And indeed, when I watched Ferber working on one of his portrait studies over a number of weeks, I often thought that his prime concern was to increase the dust.
W.G. Sebald, ‘The Emigrants’
From the chapter on Ferber, whom I guess to be partially based on Frank Auerbach, but relocated to Manchester.
There is a part of me that can strongly identify with the described feelings for a well dusted house.
I was at a talk given by Mr Keiller at the university of Cambridge recently – much of it revolved around Laurence Sterne.
Progressive literature and also digressive.
Lineality is little more than selfishness.