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When I hear a steady rumbling at 8:15 I assume thunder, but I could see sun under the blind. It was the garbage guys coming a good hour early. Thus I've had a longer than usual day, even with prolonged pre-beakfast exercise.
Went down to the library to return a batshit John Dickson Carr. One of his later works, I assume, because things... don't make sense. Somebody appears chez le detective all a-twitter about oh my daughter, I'm so worried about her, something terrible has happened!! But when asked what, goes off about something completely different and is never yanked back to the point. (Like the beginning of Brothers Karamazov where someone is in a tearing hurry about some place he has to be at whatever o'clock, but then settles into a leisurely conversation with, IIRC, an absolute stranger, about something that's nothing to do with either of them. Vowed not to reread Karamazov until I found a translation that makes sense.) Or again, the British consul tells his new assistant to write a letter to the police and have it delivered at once. New assistant goes off for a paragraph about 'Sir, I've done nothing all day but enjoy myself with you, seeing the sights and going to a ball. I want to be of assistance to you. Please let me do something to help.' How about doing the thing you were just ordered to do, twit? Carr at the nadir of his abilities and unhindered by an editor. So back it went, unfinished.
My summer hat has vanished into the mudroom, where things vanish until not needed anymore. Found the missing bag of kitchen stuff I needed a year ago, found the mobile phone I was looking for last November, did not find my summer hat even though I remember seeing it last winter. So headed to the Korean super where I'd bought it, and on the way found a very nice coffee shop called Nine Tails. Good coffee, good croissants. Not sure if the owners are Japanese or Korean: suspect they're third gen whatever, because they don't speak Korean to the Korean grammas and grampas who drop by.
The super had no hats that I could see. Suspect they're on the second floor where I cannot go. (Really, what's with my legs? I feel like I should be in traction with them.) But they did have o-nigiri and daikon; had the first for lunch and shall try making a salad with the second.
Then came home and watched the wind strip the blossoms off my cherry, while somewhere someone was burning wood. Which we're not allowed to do in the city, but the smell was still there, pleasantly nostalgic on the warm afternoon.
Went down to the library to return a batshit John Dickson Carr. One of his later works, I assume, because things... don't make sense. Somebody appears chez le detective all a-twitter about oh my daughter, I'm so worried about her, something terrible has happened!! But when asked what, goes off about something completely different and is never yanked back to the point. (Like the beginning of Brothers Karamazov where someone is in a tearing hurry about some place he has to be at whatever o'clock, but then settles into a leisurely conversation with, IIRC, an absolute stranger, about something that's nothing to do with either of them. Vowed not to reread Karamazov until I found a translation that makes sense.) Or again, the British consul tells his new assistant to write a letter to the police and have it delivered at once. New assistant goes off for a paragraph about 'Sir, I've done nothing all day but enjoy myself with you, seeing the sights and going to a ball. I want to be of assistance to you. Please let me do something to help.' How about doing the thing you were just ordered to do, twit? Carr at the nadir of his abilities and unhindered by an editor. So back it went, unfinished.
My summer hat has vanished into the mudroom, where things vanish until not needed anymore. Found the missing bag of kitchen stuff I needed a year ago, found the mobile phone I was looking for last November, did not find my summer hat even though I remember seeing it last winter. So headed to the Korean super where I'd bought it, and on the way found a very nice coffee shop called Nine Tails. Good coffee, good croissants. Not sure if the owners are Japanese or Korean: suspect they're third gen whatever, because they don't speak Korean to the Korean grammas and grampas who drop by.
The super had no hats that I could see. Suspect they're on the second floor where I cannot go. (Really, what's with my legs? I feel like I should be in traction with them.) But they did have o-nigiri and daikon; had the first for lunch and shall try making a salad with the second.
Then came home and watched the wind strip the blossoms off my cherry, while somewhere someone was burning wood. Which we're not allowed to do in the city, but the smell was still there, pleasantly nostalgic on the warm afternoon.
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I never noticed this when I first read him thirty-some odd years ago. Maybe I just thought 'oh those Russians.'
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Funny thing is, Karamazov really impressed me at the time. So did The Idiot. Now I can't remember why.
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Being able to work out who dunnit, let alone how, in Carr's tortuous locked room mysteries, does indeed signal a real decline in powers. I never even tried with the earlier ones, certain it would involve some obsvure physical law I knew nothing about.
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Papa Là-bas, the historical set in 19th century New Orleans. Written when he was 62, which isn't that old.
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I will admit to a shelf of his books, mostly acquired in my twenties - and even if I don't read them often now, I'm not getting rid of them, because I'd probably never be able to find copies of them again. (The hoarder's self-justification...)
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I truly think it's not worth reading: goodreads had harsh things to say about its 'of their time but ewww' attitudes. But you're right that you'll never find them again if you get rid of them. Our library system keeps 90% of them in the stacks and only allows about three or four to circulate.