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One need not be a daycare worker with a degree in medieval and classical studies to appreciate this, but it helps:
The Fúfumal
"Smirk not, but obey me." I shall try that on a certain young person on Monday and see if it works.
OTOH- a tune by *Verdi*?? Sou omowanai wa.
Couldn't make it through O'Brian's Mauritius Command. Between February's wintry contrariness and March's Miéville, nautical sea-faring stuff lost its colour and fascination. Also it was a library book and those don't let me read at a comfortable pace. I renewed it once it but still made no headway. Of course neither the library nor the used bookstore had the next book, and doldrummy/ disappointed, I didn't feel like shelling out $25 at Book City for a new copy, not when I could (almost) get a copy of Nemuki for the same amount.
So I grabbed a random one from the used book store in case the urge to read Aubrey Maturin came back in the spring, and it sat on the kitchen table, and it sat on the kitchen table, and it sat on the kitchen table until I finished the current Nix, and chronic April bindertwine did its awl in the eye thing so I can't read Japanese. Then I picked it up.
Aside from the developments involved in skipping eight or so volumes (Stephen is what?? Jack has what???) sluuurp I'm sucked right back in. O'Brian doesn't just fill my head, he fills the back of my head, the way unremembered dreams do on waking. I go about the day with a vague sensation that Stuff has happened; I see flashes of not exactly memories at odd moments; maybe in fact I did dream about this except that when I go to look at whatever it is in the corner of my mind's eye, it's a bit of the book. Other writers can do this to me but not to the same extent, and usually when it is to this extent it's seriously unpleasant, like Gormenghast or Wolfe's New Sun. This is all genial happiness, even if Issues are clearly about to raise themselves shortly: the 19th century is not a morally comfortable time for a westerner to look back on.
The Fúfumal
"Smirk not, but obey me." I shall try that on a certain young person on Monday and see if it works.
OTOH- a tune by *Verdi*?? Sou omowanai wa.
Couldn't make it through O'Brian's Mauritius Command. Between February's wintry contrariness and March's Miéville, nautical sea-faring stuff lost its colour and fascination. Also it was a library book and those don't let me read at a comfortable pace. I renewed it once it but still made no headway. Of course neither the library nor the used bookstore had the next book, and doldrummy/ disappointed, I didn't feel like shelling out $25 at Book City for a new copy, not when I could (almost) get a copy of Nemuki for the same amount.
So I grabbed a random one from the used book store in case the urge to read Aubrey Maturin came back in the spring, and it sat on the kitchen table, and it sat on the kitchen table, and it sat on the kitchen table until I finished the current Nix, and chronic April bindertwine did its awl in the eye thing so I can't read Japanese. Then I picked it up.
Aside from the developments involved in skipping eight or so volumes (Stephen is what?? Jack has what???) sluuurp I'm sucked right back in. O'Brian doesn't just fill my head, he fills the back of my head, the way unremembered dreams do on waking. I go about the day with a vague sensation that Stuff has happened; I see flashes of not exactly memories at odd moments; maybe in fact I did dream about this except that when I go to look at whatever it is in the corner of my mind's eye, it's a bit of the book. Other writers can do this to me but not to the same extent, and usually when it is to this extent it's seriously unpleasant, like Gormenghast or Wolfe's New Sun. This is all genial happiness, even if Issues are clearly about to raise themselves shortly: the 19th century is not a morally comfortable time for a westerner to look back on.
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(Better yet, it reminds me of the time Best Beloved Professor put on a knit bunny-ears hat and told us "Little Bunny Foo Foo" on the last day of class. Good times).