At the mid-point of my rereading of The Stand. Enjoying the sprawling nature of the text. Strong sense that King really was just making it up as he went along. Probably wrong but who cares when the results are this engrossing.
(Have completely forgotten all plot details from my previous reading, by the way.)
Spent the late part of the afternoon and early evening at the Amara Sanctuary on Sentosa, and very pleasant it was. A tastefully designed resort. I could see the appeal in its offer of respite from the trials of living in the city. But the odd thing was that I didn't feel in any way at all the need for sanctuary for myself. Almost the opposite.
An odd discovery of old age. Far from desiring the quiet life I'm generally happy to be in the thick of things, assuming things don't get too thick. I prefer a sense of neighborhood to the solitary life, even though I'm happy enough to be left to my own devices as the world swirls around me.
I was asked what I regarded as my favourite comfort food when I was interviewed in school the other day for some video for a school event. If I remember rightly I answered something along the lines of pretty much anything my wife cooks. The truth of this came home to me just now over a plate (or two, or three) of chapatti & keema. Nice way to finish a day. Trust me, I know.
Just finished Fontane's Effi Briest. Found reading it fairly rewarding, but hard work. In many ways a subtle novel, but slow-moving for three-quarters of its length. Then it picks up towards the end, with the revelation of Effi's infidelity and I wondered if Fontane was going to do something a bit special in the last two chapters, only for him to fall back into tiresome illness as metaphor - which Dickens and Flaubert, to mention two rivals, do with far greater verve.
The back cover of the Oxford World's Classics edition - which comes with an excellent introductory essay - compares the work to Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina. Sadly that's way off the mark. It's strictly Division 3 in comparison to those way out in front of the Premier League.
It was around mid-June this year that I found myself experiencing and expressing mild concern regarding a distinct spike in the numbers of visitors to this Far Place. In fact, by the end of the month my notional readership had increased by something in the region of 400% of the usual numbers that get recorded somehow or other in the background. Now it isn't that I wanted to turn folk away, but I'm not in the business of seeking out a readership and the notion that several thousand pairs of eyes were scrutinising my ramblings over any given month was debilitating to say the least.
Thankfully normal service was resumed in July and, so far at least, August has seen a further healthy decline. So it's just me and you again, Gentle Reader, the way we both like it.
Enjoyed the latest in Carol Rumens's surpassingly excellent Poem of the Week column in the Graun featuring Abraham Cowley's Platonic Love. Immediately on reading it thought of Cowley as one of the Metaphysical poets of the school of Donne, but now am not so sure realising he post-dates Donne by quite a few decades more than I originally assumed, though this poem seems to me firmly in the knotty tradition I came to admire when studying Donne for 'A' level English Lit.
Also realised that I have a tendency to tell classes that the work of Donne was a set text for me back in the days whilst the truth is we studied a whole bunch of the Metaphysical Poets (using the Penguin Grierson edition, if I remember rightly.) In some ways I preferred the more comfortable George Herbert to the cutting Jack Donne back then. Now I've got an odd feeling that the man for me might just be Henry Vaughan and sort of made up my mind to tackle my crumbling Penguin edition of Henry Vaughan: The Complete Poems once I've come out the other side of the great Robert Lowell read-through (not that that will be any time soon.)
Have also realised I really must read a bit more of Cowley. It's odd how chaps who were once regarded as big name poets seem to fall by the wayside. Considering the obvious merits of Platonic Love it's not exactly fair, is it? Thank goodness for Ms Rumens's sterling efforts in keeping a whole range of otherwise most likely neglected fine writers in view.
Just been eating an excellent fish dish courtesy of The Missus whilst watching Eat Well For Less, one of our favourite programmes on the BBC Lifestyle channel (I think it's called.) Felt very complacent about how reasonably positive our diet is compared to the folks being shown the right way to a healthy lifestyle on the goggle box.
In fact, I'm in the curious position of remaining some two kilograms short of my fighting weight despite bouncing back to my usual appetite after feeling not quite so tickety-boo in that direction at the start of the year. The thing is that these days I find myself highly satisfied after a decent meal with no need to any extra munching (or imbibing, for that matter.)
Somehow I've achieved a harmonious balance without really trying. Wish other aspects of appetite were so seemingly easy to deal with.
Ever since the final performance of As You Like It I've felt delightfully low on energy. Why 'delightfully' so? Well, in the run-up to the show and in the days of full scale performance I entered that curiously 'hyper' state necessary to getting the thing done. As usual this involved waking early, yet not feeling in the slightest bit sleepy during the day. Now I'm sleeping well yet I could happily nod off at almost any moment. I'm actually swamped with work, funnily enough, and I'm gradually getting it done, but in a generally relaxed manner. Both states have their attractions, I suppose, but if I had to choose one in which to live out my days I know which it would be.
It's a curious thing, but when I tell people I'm lazy by nature, especially my colleagues, they never take me seriously. But I have a real talent for switching off, which I intend to exploit in the next ten minutes or so.
Had a fine old time in the early afternoon watching the youngest of our basketball teams in action. Am really getting into the game - and I must admit it helps when the guys dominate as we did today. Nice blend of grace & aggression. Though the frequent stoppages - American style - take some adjusting to. I miss that sense of the unrelenting need to focus, but the bursts of energy go a long way to making up for it.
One good thing from the wreckage of Sinead O'Connor's untimely death: most of the press I've seen has been rightly admiring, or at least healthily respectful. I just can't be bothered to read the other sort of small-minded press, though I suspect it's somewhere slithering around, as is the way of things. Of course, she must have been a difficult person, but the world is a better place for difficult people who so often leave behind so much more than we safe types manage.
At her absolute best she illuminated the world, at the same time leaving the distinct impression she had the force of character to burn it up. (Assisted in the clip I posted by a couple of Smiths, if I'm not mistaken.)
