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DOES MEMORY have a colour? If it does, it must lie somewhere in the palette between sepia and mahogany. A beautiful word that latter, even if I hear it these days as the spaced-out syllables of Brecht's decadent city, Mahagonny. Ma-ha-gon-ny. In any case redolent of stiff-backed Victorian furniture, daguerreotypes, havanas, Worcestershire sauce, cocoa and the meat extract Nietzsche used to he partial to. The thick brown gravy of memory. Europe's edible mud.
And the more I look around, the more I seem to notice official recognition of my observation. Memory is brown. Drive down the super-efficient tollways after the Channel Tunnel, those long concrete snakes cut ...