the four right chords can make me cry

Another passage from Maugham's Of Human Bondage, this time about dance halls in the late 1800's.

Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and the place was crowded. There were a number of students of various faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they wore their everyday clother, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and their hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced there was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women looked like servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part they were shop-girls. They were poorly dressed in cheap imitation of the fashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up to resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the moment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently scarlet. The hall was lit with great white lights, low down, which emphazised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under it, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scence. Philip leaned over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced fusiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with all their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. It seemed to Philip that they had thrown of the guard which people wear on their expression, the homage to covention, and he saw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolflike; and others had the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate, Their features were blunted by mean interest, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and srodid thoughts. The air was heavy with the musty smelly of humanity. But they danced furiously as thought impelled by some strange power withing them, and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not why and they knew not whither. Fate seemd to tower above them, and they danced as though an everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throsts. There eyes were haggard and grim; and the meanness of their faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst fo all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him.

He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness of the night.

My version (2004 update)

Zouk was no fashion show. It was ladies night and the placed was packed. There were a few jc students, but most of the clubbers were young working adults; they came in a stripped down version of their office wear, and their PDA-handphones, which they wore around their necks. Some of the chicks looked like ah lians, and some had way too much make-up on, but the crowd was largely 20-something. They were decked out in a shabby attempt at jap or american fashion. The girls all tried desperately to look like the latest pop-star or fashion diva at moment, (which unfortunately was Christina Aguilera *cringe*) with kohl lined eyes and flourescent pink blusher. The dancefloor blazed with disco lights and the trademark UV light, which made everything white glow with an unearthly parlour, making faces dark and ghoulish in comparison. It was a sordid scene. Phill leaned over the rail, looking down at the mambo-nighters, and the throbing techno beats began to fade away. The mambo-nighters boogied furiously. They wiggled about in their spot madly, not bothering to talk, conversation being impossible with the music so loud anyway. Although there was air-con, the proximity of so many gyrating bodies generated vast amounts of heat, and the faces of the most enthu glistened with sweat. To Phill, it seemed as though they finally showed their true colours. In that moment of abandon they were strangely animal; from his perch he could make out the hunters and the hunted. Underneath the harsh lights, he saw that their skin was sallow, masked by bronzer, caused by bullimia. Their features made them look unforgiving and cruel, and their blank gazes were haughty. There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of materialism, selfishness and sex. The air, dense with cigarette smoke, was musty with the smell of raw humanity. But they continued to dance relentlessly, as though driven by a powerful, inescapable force within them, and it seemed to Phill a sort of hedonistic lust. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure, which Chow asserted was the only motive of human action, urged them blindly on. Ironically, the very vehemence and intensity of that desire seemed to rob their performance of any pleasure. They were blown about by every trend, not knowing why, not knowing where. Fate seemed to tower above them and they danced as though hell were under their feet and dancing their only means of redemption. Their total lack of verbal communication was vaguely distressing to Phill, he felt it was as though some great fear choked them such that the great cry of confusion in their hearts never left their lips. Their eyes were haggard and lifeless; you only saw the blatant lust and flirtation, and worst of all, a certain stupid passiveness. Behind those souless eyes was a deep anguish, longings unfulfilled and murderous loneliness, making the crowd at once terrifiying and pathetic. Phill hated them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which threatened to overwhelm him.

He picked up the tab and went out into the warm saucy darkness of the night.

posted by beckyboo @ 1:56 AM