Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

The Dog

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The family dog was taken to the vet and put down yesterday.  She wasn’t eating, and was starting to waste away somewhat.  I’m surprised I forgot to mention it yesterday, but I suppose the dog didn’t have the same hold over me as my cat.  It seems heartless to me – and I suppose worrying that it’s heartless proves that I’m not entirely without feeling – but I merely felt a minor pang or two; nothing that would have sent me into any kind of serious grief.  Perhaps if I’d been at the vet’s when the final moments came, like with my cat, things may have been different – immediacy has a way of amplifying emotions, does it not?

Perhaps we shall get a new dog sometime soon.

Finished Letter 100 of Clarissa today.  Thoroughly enjoying it, I am.  (And note that, by saying “finished”, I solve the problem I was worried about yesterday, yes?)

And I’m now up to page 362/658 in The Secret History by Donna Tartt.

I believe I got it at our local Angus & Robertson, when they still existed (or existed, at least, in the large capacity that I’ve always, up until recently, known them to exist, before the business catastrophe).  I can’t remember the details exactly, but it was some sort of offer, I believe, whereby, having spent a certain amount on books in the store, one was entitled to get, from a selection of books behind the counter (five or six, I think), some bargains, as it were.  I don’t think I explained that well.  I got to buy The Secret History for a nominal amount (five bucks or something), because I was spending a lot more on books at the time.  Something like that.  And I’m pretty sure The Secret History was one of them.  The other was The Master and the Margherita by Bulgakov, which I got halfway through and stopped, as I tend to do with books that I’m enjoying but haven’t got the stamina (or whatever it is that makes me stop) at the time to continue.

Quite enjoying it.  And just like The Master and the Margherita, I didn’t realise it had a certain pedigree; that it was a classic bestseller and all that.  (I thought at the time that both it and the Bulgakov were simply books they had excess stock of, and they were trying to get rid of it, and hence, if they had excess stock of it, they probably weren’t that good, but a bargain’s a bargain, and I did find myself interested in the blurbs of each, if I recall correctly.)  (The mistake was partially made, too, because they look like normal paperbacks, and not like what a Penguin classic usually looks like, cover design-wise.)  I wonder if I could buy a book like that nowadays and not realise its importance.  Yes, I probably could.  But there’s less chance, methinks.  Less chance.

And, now I’m suddenly reminded that the world is meant to be ending tomorrow, what with the Mayan calendar and all that.  (Not that I believe any of the doomsday predictions.)  But what if it did?  If the world ended, I wouldn’t be dissatisfied with my life so much as if only I died.  If I want to write to make others happy, to put it simply, then if ‘others’ are all dead, why should it bother me that I haven’t written anything worthwhile?  (Plus, of course, I’ll be dead, so it won’t be bothering me anyway.)


Written by epistemysics

December 20, 2012 at 1:14 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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