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Ah well
Age is upon me. Last night I did what my s-i-l so often complains happens to her: sank into a pleasant post-Christmas dinner alcoholic sleep at 11 and woke, irrevocably, at 1 am. Usually I then sink back into the flannel-covered arms of Morpheus, but not last night. Looked at the dark, did exercises in bed, changed bedrooms, looked at the dark some more, turned on light and read Lies Sleeping until I began yawning, turned off light and slept to 10. And then turned over and slept another two hours. So the day was a quarter gone by the time I got up.
I'd taken prophylactics against the usual fallout from excessive wine, but my system still didn't want to eat much. Crackers and Brie and a hard boiled egg were my brunch and tea. However, I'd bought a mini-turducken that had been thawing in the fridge the requisite 2-3 days so I had to cook that up. Mini turducken is stuffed with Italian sausage which is the second reason (price is the first) I shall never buy another. I am left with a fair quantity of Meat- and pretty dry meat at that- which might go well minced with celery and ginger and bok choy. Stuffing birds one into the other is simply not the best way to cook said birds.
Finished?
Broken Homes, The Hanging Tree and the latter's come-by-chance additional story, which I'd not noticed the first couple of times through. Explained the scene encountered shortly thereafter, in Lies Sleeping, of the woman in the houseboat on the Regent's Canal whose wooden figure of an orangautang means she never has to pay tying up fees, which I would otherwise have taken for an obscure Discworld reference. This time through THT, I actually did note the DW reference in 'a quick prayer to Sir Samuel, the patron saint of policemen' which I can't believe I missed before. Must have been reading for plot at that point.
Reading now?
Everything else?
Lies Sleeping, with pauses to google images of places like the Whitechapel road, which also serves to draw my reading out.
The Mortal Word, my backpack read, and his chilly Majesty of the Western Ocean.
Still onwards with the Purgatorio, where Dante's dense allusions need to be reread in the blank verse of the Dore edition to make sense. Am informed Vergil will not speak again, three or four cantos from the end, so why bother reading? At the moment it's maidens picking flowers in the woods, which is nice enough but not really what I'm here for.
My couch reading of the last month, Soseki's I am a Cat III which is virtually unreadable. Think the translators may have expanded the japanese to a ridiculous degree, like Scott-Moncrieff's version of Proust or Waley's expansion of Genji; or maybe early Soseki really is verbose, ham-handed, and in love with the sound of his own voice.
Looked at Aya de Yopougon 4, but need a calm period and a French dictionary to get through this one. It has innocent Innocent arriving in Paris at 6:30 in the morning and trying to find his way about the city and the metro in the rain, with which I sooo sympathize, even after thirty-some years.
Next?
All the above, I suppose. Baudolino is looking increasingly less likely.
I'd taken prophylactics against the usual fallout from excessive wine, but my system still didn't want to eat much. Crackers and Brie and a hard boiled egg were my brunch and tea. However, I'd bought a mini-turducken that had been thawing in the fridge the requisite 2-3 days so I had to cook that up. Mini turducken is stuffed with Italian sausage which is the second reason (price is the first) I shall never buy another. I am left with a fair quantity of Meat- and pretty dry meat at that- which might go well minced with celery and ginger and bok choy. Stuffing birds one into the other is simply not the best way to cook said birds.
Finished?
Broken Homes, The Hanging Tree and the latter's come-by-chance additional story, which I'd not noticed the first couple of times through. Explained the scene encountered shortly thereafter, in Lies Sleeping, of the woman in the houseboat on the Regent's Canal whose wooden figure of an orangautang means she never has to pay tying up fees, which I would otherwise have taken for an obscure Discworld reference. This time through THT, I actually did note the DW reference in 'a quick prayer to Sir Samuel, the patron saint of policemen' which I can't believe I missed before. Must have been reading for plot at that point.
Reading now?
Everything else?
Lies Sleeping, with pauses to google images of places like the Whitechapel road, which also serves to draw my reading out.
The Mortal Word, my backpack read, and his chilly Majesty of the Western Ocean.
Still onwards with the Purgatorio, where Dante's dense allusions need to be reread in the blank verse of the Dore edition to make sense. Am informed Vergil will not speak again, three or four cantos from the end, so why bother reading? At the moment it's maidens picking flowers in the woods, which is nice enough but not really what I'm here for.
My couch reading of the last month, Soseki's I am a Cat III which is virtually unreadable. Think the translators may have expanded the japanese to a ridiculous degree, like Scott-Moncrieff's version of Proust or Waley's expansion of Genji; or maybe early Soseki really is verbose, ham-handed, and in love with the sound of his own voice.
Looked at Aya de Yopougon 4, but need a calm period and a French dictionary to get through this one. It has innocent Innocent arriving in Paris at 6:30 in the morning and trying to find his way about the city and the metro in the rain, with which I sooo sympathize, even after thirty-some years.
Next?
All the above, I suppose. Baudolino is looking increasingly less likely.