Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Australia Ensemble

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Saw the Australia Ensemble tonight, at the Clancy Auditorium at UNSW.  Where I graduated.  Second time I’ve been there since I graduated.  And it barely brought any memories back this time – or rather, the memories weren’t forced on me.  A bit like Proust going to Balbec for the second time, perhaps.  Good concert.  Long concert.  Monstrous traffic in the city on the way home.  Fifty minute plus traffic in the city.  (Concert finished at around 10.40, 10.45, I think.  I got home at 12.20-12.25.)

Anyway, news today is that I finished Proust 4.  I thought the last chapter – chapter four of part 2 – particularly good.  But that may just be because I read it in one sitting, and so I got the full effect all at once, instead of diluting it over many readings.

(Usually I try to keep reading until there’s a new paragraph at least, though sometimes  I stop at the end of a sentence and hope I can find it once again.)

And now, I’m 78/982 in Don Quixote.  (Curiously, I got an email yesterday from the bookshop saying that it was going to be posted to be on the 22nd of March – they had some errors with the stock or something – but tonight I get an email telling me it’s just been posted.  But I’ll finish reading the library version, to save my own book, methinks.)  I should’ve read it a lot earlier than this.  But I’m reading it now, so all is not lost.

In some ways it’s the same as what I expected – crazy guy going on adventures – but there’s a lot I didn’t expect, though I can’t quite put my finger on it, though I can try, of course!  Him returning home having ‘failed’, for one.  And the windmills, for another.  Yes, the windmills were funny – I laughed, or at least I vocalised my humour – but it wasn’t as funny as I’d been led to believe (I purposely refused to give myself high hopes it, just to be sure I wasn’t putting too much into my reading of that scene).  Well…  No, that’s wrong.  It was as funny as I’d been led to believe, but it was short.  So utterly short.  Like what, two pages maximum?  My idea of it was that it’d be one of his adventures, coming somewhere in the middle of the book – more than ten or twenty pages in length – that was of just such a high calibre of humour that no one could forget it, and everyone keeps talking about it.  Instead, I find that it’s merely like Proust’s madeleine: more a powerful example of the work – a potent portion of it – than a whole entity in itself.

Huh.  A music clip on TV just showed a woman dancing in front of a windmill.  How’s that for coincidence?  (Driving home tonight, as soon as I hit Oxford St, “It’s Raining Men” came on the radio, which somewhat amused me, too.)

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Written by epistemysics

March 16, 2013 at 2:09 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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