Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Vienna on Fire

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Saw ‘Vienna on Fire’ with the Johann Strauss Ensemble tonight.  I was hoping for a New Year’s Day-type concert, but didn’t quite get it.  Still, pleasant enough.

The more secrets a person has, the harder it will be for them to truly love.

(I’m not sure I believe in that, but it has, in my mind at least, a ring of truth to it.  Then again, not all that rings is truthful.

I can’t remember what part of The Orphan Master’s Son triggered that thought within me, but it was somewhere in the last hundred pages.)

And as you may have guessed (apply via email for your prize), I’ve finished reading The Orphan Master’s Son.  It was pleasantly engrossing, and nicely (although only slightly) translucent as well, though compared to Infinite Jest’s translucency it pales in comparison.  (Wow, what a  redundant-laden sentence – “compared to…it pales in comparison”.)  I enjoyed it, and that is all that matters in this literary world of mine.  My pleasure.  I’m just a narcissistic epicurean.

Must read 1984 again.  I saw, looking for books of Thomas Pynchon’s, that he wrote an introduction for one of Penguin’s 1984, but, on looking at the copy we have here (I believe it was a present for Dad, or he wanted to read it himself – I borrowed my copy from school when my English Extension 2 teacher said I should read it) I found it had a different introductory author.

Sitting in front of me as I watched the Tour de France were the three books I was choosing between to read next: Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The War at the End of the World, and Pride and Prejudice.  I chose the latter.  This will be, basically, my first Austen – I read Emma in high school but I don’t think I was concentrating (nor do I think I was concentrating when I wrote essays on it, but high school essays are just regurgitations).  (Oh that I could write them now!)  I’m almost more certain that I skimmed Emma than I am of any other book.  There was something to do with a Box Hill, I believe.  And Emma liked to meddle with the love life of her friends.  That’s all that comes to mind nowadays.  But I’m reading Pride and Prejudice now.  This version, reprinted in 1983, has the name “Ruth Blaikie” in the cover.  I wonder who she was.  I wonder if she was the book’s first owner, though I don’t necessarily let myself believe that.  (The past lives of books, like the past lives of lovers, should never be taken at face value.)


Written by epistemysics

July 16, 2013 at 4:41 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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