Something didn't happen in 2025. As the final hours of the year play out I realise I can't recall a single case in the last 12 months of my suffering from a cranky back. Never needed to take a single tablet just in case. Seems like trivial stuff, especially in relation to a world that seems to be doing its best to fall apart, but hugely important for me in terms of quality of life.
Hoping for continuity and its attendant great good luck in the months ahead, but wisely not counting on such.
It was whilst enjoying the magic of Maggie O'Farrell's novel about Shakespeare earlier this year that it struck me that it might be worthwhile to reread Anthony Burgess's fictional account of the love-life of the Bard, Nothing Like the Sun. And it turns out that it was worthwhile, if only to enjoy the linguistic fireworks involved.
The earlier novel has none of O'Farrell's impressive emotional power - the death of Hamnet in Burgess's work left me entirely dry-eyed - but it's hugely entertaining and deals far more with WS as a working dramatist. And it too captures something of the feel of daily life in the period in a way that's sometimes little short of magical.
Anyway, there's no competition involved. Good to have read both novels (though I doubt I'll be paying either any further visit. It's time to move on.)
I'm not at all sure how I could do this but after starting to enthusiastically re-watch the excellent version of Macbeth featuring Denzel Washington back in early October, I only managed to complete that viewing almost three full months later. Tonight I watched the Act 5 material and, as with everything previous to this, I found myself hypnotised by the visual richness of the movie. Every frame could go into an art gallery.
I suppose that's why I drew out the viewing experience. Since I'm achingly familiar with the play, the narrative held out no surprises, so I didn't feel any need to find out what direction the film would take. And having watched it already I knew the interpretive spin of its director, so no compulsion there. Taking forever to re-watch was by way of a homage, a recognition that the details are so memorable that it felt natural not to have any sense of urgency.
I first read T.F. Powys's novel Mr Weston's Good Wine back in the 1970s when Penguin re-published it in their Modern Classics series. Didn't really know what to make of it then and found it a bit of a slog to get through. Decided to attempt it again in my old age and this time I quite enjoyed it, though I can't say I followed the allegory involved other than the obvious idea that Mr Weston represents God, sort of in a Christian sense, and his wine stands for various aspects of his grace.
To be honest, I'm not sure it's necessary to have a firm interpretation of the text since Powys seems to be more interested in developing a sense of the uncanny than dealing in definite ideas about the godhead. On that level I found much to enjoy in the strangeness of the various episodes as the inhabitants of Folly Down received their comeuppances. Indeed, I've got a feeling that if someone were to explain it all to me I'd end up disappointed.
Spent the early afternoon getting very sweaty indeed, ministering to the books and magazines on the shelves outside the apartment with our trusty vacuum cleaner. I'm not convinced the bi-annual clean-up does the objects in question all that much good, but it makes me feel better. In fact, the stuff outside gets a bit more attention over a year than the books inside since I think there's a bit more dust out there. So the bi-annual notion applies to the stuff inside, plus the books and magazines in KL and my desk at work.
This end-of-year clean-up was spread over a month, starting towards the end of November and finishing today, so it felt a bit less frenzied than it has sometimes felt in the past, when I've tended to leave it to the last minute. Must say, I feel particularly virtuous as a result, hence, I suppose, the odd compulsion to record this for the world to know.
Played Dylan's Christmas in the Heart yesterday, following the tradition I've established of playing the only Christmas-themed album I enjoy once a year. The restrictions on playing the CD mean it remains fresh despite my familiarity with its contents. I played it in the morning in an attempt to conjure some nostalgic Xmas magic. That didn't work at all. What worked splendidly for me were the beguiling arrangements, the humour, the quirky sincerity, and that voice in contrast with the otherwise slick vocalising of the backing singers. It felt new. Just what I needed on a morning when the temptation was to feel old.
One can only hope it delivered its best to all who strive to keep it today.
I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart was first published some 68 years ago. That's almost a decade more than the gap in time between Achebe's first novel and Conrad's Heart of Darkness, that being just 59 years. Both incontestably great works, though I suspect Achebe would contest that statement since he famously considered Conrad's novella an offensive and totally deplorable book. I think Achebe was wrong, but I can understand why he felt that way, and reading Things Fall Apart again was a powerful reminder for me of what he knew that Conrad didn't which led him to that conclusion.
It's astonishing how fresh Achebe's novel seems, especially placed side-by-side with Conrad. The great English (or Polish?) writer's prose reads as decidedly dated, for all its virtues, but this is not at all true of Achebe's writing. The great Nigerian achieves something quite remarkable - a version of English that transcends any kind of nationalism: it reads as effortlessly international, incorporating a story-telling voice that is recognisably African, generally sounding quite simple, yet making subtle demands upon its readers to recognise the complexities of the world it delineates. It's also astonishing just how much he crams into his short novel, less than 200 pages in the Penguin edition I finished yesterday, reading the whole in just a couple of days.
In fact, Achebe doesn't really cram things into his work. If anything he leaves things out, judiciously so. His characters suggest depth, but we are never given much in the way of actual detail. So it would be easy for the casual reader to see Okonkwo simply as an unpleasant bully, rather than a genuinely tragic figure. His complexities in fighting against the humiliations involved in being the son of a negligent, hopeless father and then facing what must seem like deep betrayal from his eldest son are brilliantly implied.
What struck me most of all on this reading of Things Fall Apart is just how desperately sad the plight of the people of Umuofia is as they face the collapse of all that gives their lives meaning and purpose. Perhaps that's one of the reasons the text seems so fresh? We live, after all, in a world of collapsing values with a bleak awareness of how nothing is guaranteed to last.
Back in the gym this evening. Had hoped to improve on Saturday's poor performance, but this was worse, despite me being reasonably rested prior to the session. Woeful whimpering through the first half hour, and then got even weaker. Prayed that no one would come in to inadvertently witness this pathetic display.
Kept going though, so that's something from the wreckage.
