Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Girl in Tan Boots

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Saw Girl in Tan Boots at Griffin Theatre tonight.  Quite good.  Rather delightful, actually, though nothing classic.

Achieved pretty much precisely what it aimed for, too, which is perhaps why I don’t think it’d be a classic.  (Plus, it’s genre – mystery – isn’t conducive to becoming a classic either.)  Great art should fail, I think.  Don Quixote, for instance, is riddled with failures.  But don’t ask me to list them, because then I might have to actually prove something I say.

Still, I’d happily watch another play by the playwright, whose name I can’t quite recall at the moment.  Which would make watching another play by her a tad difficult, perhaps.  I’m sure I’ll manage.

Anyway, finished Don Quixote today, and I should have more to say about it tomorrow, as I can’t concentrate tonight.  My first impression, though, is that it’s not the greatest novel I’ve ever read, but perhaps I need to read another translation to more fully appreciate it.  Still a great novel, though.  Better than The Pickwick Papers, for instance, I think.

Part of the problem, I imagine, is that I don’t realise how revolutionary it was for its time, and how everything we think that a novel is today was somewhat originated in it.

It had me thinking about reality while I was reading it, too.  Like, would I care if the world wasn’t real, if I was happy anyway?

Or another conundrum I thought up on the train ride home.  Would I rather be as I am now, where I am – no doubt excessively so – aware that others might find my social presence a slight annoyance in some occasions, and my coming up to talk to them an imposition, and so I remain somewhat withdrawn to avoid giving offence; OR, would I rather be oblivious to the offence I may or may not cause people, and be much more socially lubricated.  Hmm.  I don’t know, to be honest.  To have no anxiety would be a good thing, methinks, except I probably wouldn’t be a writer if I chose  the latter personality trait.  But then I wouldn’t be worried about not being a writer, because only writers worry about not being writers – one doesn’t come across a non-plumber who worries that they’re not a plumber, right?

Started reading The Book of Disquiet today by Fernando Pessoa.  77/476.  I had that moment of pleasant uncertainty when, having decided that I won’t read the next Proust, I had no idea what I would read next, and had to browse through my voluminous library to make my choice.  I pulled out The Tale of Genji and The Magus, too.  Though usually when I plan to read a book next, I rarely end up reading the ones I’ve picked.


Written by epistemysics

April 1, 2013 at 2:02 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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