Sleeping Books Redux
Almost finished Parade’s End – meant to finish it tonight but got distracted, as per usual. I’ve noticed that it has occasional bouts of redundancy in it, which I assume happened because Ford was reprising some of the information in the earlier novels – released two years apart, I think – to help the reader. Except it wastes time when the four books are together. I don’t recall Dickens ever having the same problem, but then again, he released his serials a lot closer together.
As for sleeping with books – I managed to do it last night, but not on purpose. I think I let myself get a bit sleepier than usual, but was still determined to put the book aside, only to wake up at 5.06am with the bedside lamp shining on my eyes and the book next to me. Perfectly unharmed, the book was, mind you, but there was a chance of damage, especially if I drooled on it, like I’m wont to do once every two months or so. (Too much information?)
—
Wrote a little something something today for the play – part of a speech for the king, who has just been left alone in his throne room:
Do they not see the man? Do not they spy
That lack of glint divine whose rays should warm
This frozen seat? Did ever there exist
A comfortable throne?
Compassion: it alone did keep the man
Who built this snare tilting it forwards so.
But an ironic carpenter would starve.
Yet sloping fortune glides each man to death,
And makes us think of what will hit our toes.
Will feet be burnt? Will souls forsaken be?
They say that Providence did place me here,
And for a time, like children conned with parent’s fancies…
But for a time. Does God think himself God?
Or does he fear the angel’s yearning looks?
But then omniscience barrens conspirers’ soil.
