Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

The Mysterious Mailbag

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The Sherlock in this interpretation, with his drug-addict-recovery angle (as opposed to the rest of the Sherlocks I know, who haven’t been to rehab), is very reminiscent of Infinite Jest, I find.  The overwhelming intellect in the face of everyday banalities, and the idea that the cliches have value, even though they’re banal, but people who live in their heads have trouble accepting that.

“He came in his own chariot to Dormer’s; and we took a turn in the garden, at his request.  He was devilish ceremonious, and made a bushel of apologies for the freedom he was going to take; and, after half a hundred hums and haws, told me that he came—that he came—to wait on me—at the request of dear Miss Howe, on the account—on the account—of Miss Harlowe.

Well, sir, speak on, said I: but give me leave to say, that if your book be as long as your preface, it will take up a week to read it.”  — Letter 346

I half-snorted a laugh, reading that.  Which is probably the first time I’ve laughed during my reading of Clarissa.

Three present books received today:

Three Novels by Samuel Beckett (Molloy, Malone Dies, The Unnamable – for those of you playing at home)
Mozart: A Life by Maynard Solomon
Anton Chekhov: A Life by Donald Rayfield

More interestingly, perhaps, was the condition they were left in on my doorstep.  They were put in one of those plastic packages/parcels (the really thin plastic that works like an envelope, and is almost impossible to rip open).  That itself was put in a large – a very large – mail bag of some sort, with a twist tie around its neck (or where the bag had been bunched together) with our address on it, and so forth.  There was also a loose velcro tie (undone) on the bag, further up the neck, where it expanded from having been bunched up.  The bag was clear, and was made of a very thick plastic-type-substance.  Most strange, most strange.  The bag was ridiculously oversized.  It was at least a metre squared in area.  There were three books inside.  (It was a UPS bag, too, I believe.)

Anyway, I found it rather amusing to ponder.

Nothing on the scratchie today.  Finished Letter 361.

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Written by epistemysics

January 7, 2013 at 12:44 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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