We went out with Fi Fi & Fa Fa this morning to a performance of Scrooge by the Little Company, the sort of children's branch of the Singapore Repertory Theatre. Aimed at six-year-olds the musical was resolutely un-Dickensian - the set looked like something from Sesame Street, as did a number of the puppets (cleverly) employed as spirits & the like - yet the basic story survived. The great stories are like containers into which we pour ourselves.
Dickens is so familiar you tend to forget how strange he is. Is Scrooge in any sense believable? The question is irrelevant. In him we recognise ourselves, and that's enough.
2 comments:
I laughed when I read your posts for 21/11 and 22/11 in sequence. I saw Scotland undeservedly go out to terrible refereeing and England deservedly go out to their national pastime of hash-making.
And then it hit me: my life was being directed by goals...
It's odd though. I've had a greater affinity for Scotland than England because I have a Scots name, I think. And in the absence of Scotland, England is still the country of my birth. But, oh, what a hash they made of things! I prefer borscht now.
A complete lack of goals would have served England well. Ironic. Painful. I'm really trying not to think about this too much.
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