Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

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Saw Dirty Rotten Scoundrels tonight.  Rather splendid.  The first fifteen minutes made me think I was in for a long night, but it picked right up – something that doesn’t happen all that often, unfortunately.

In the Theatre Royal toilets during the interval, in the cubicle, standing up to urinate (we’re on an intimate basis, dear reader, aren’t we?), I noticed a metal disc attached to the wall right above where the button to flush the toilet was attached.  This metal disc was quite reflective.  It just so happened that all that was reflected in it was my micturitive appendage.  (Of course, the enormity of it couldn’t be entirely reflected in the…blah, blah, blah…)  It was a tad disconcerting, it was.  The Wharf Theatre toilets have a mirrored wall behind their cisterns and seats; they are, in a word, ‘natural’; but this disc was, yes, it was disconcerting.

Finished The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet tonight.  Enjoyed it, but I don’t think I read it fast enough, and so diluted its effect somewhat.  Also, the double-narrative-in-a-scene that I complained about earlier reared its ugly head time and time again, which irked me; I think I read it as a fugue, when the right hand is meant to be dominant, but such is the way I read, treating all information equally.  Which doesn’t surprise me.

What to read next, what to read next.  I have The Luminaries on hand, but it is so very very large.  Bleeding Edge calls to me, but not as much as The Luminaries; I would read a smaller classic book, but not the smaller Pynchon.  (My tastes, desires, and literary fetishes are complicated and ever-changing; they facet my brain like oil on the retina.)

“oil on the retina” – file that one away for later use, methinks.

I could go for a Dostoevksy, too.  Or back to Austen, which is what I left for Mitchell.  And then there’s Proust, but I was going to finish Austen before that…  And David Foster Wallace’s Broom of the System, and The Magus, and goodness gracious I could read another Dickens (except the one I’m to read next – if I continue chronologically, is somewhat inaccessible to me at the moment).  And there’s Shakespeare’s Metrical Art, but I can dip in and out of that at any time, even concurrently.

Then again, The Luminaries should probably be read before it wins the Booker (assuming it does, but because it’s the only one on the shortlist that I’ve bought, it obviously must be the best.  Obviously.)

Is to be dazed with choice a pleasant feeling?  Is there happiness in the anticipation of happiness?  Does a shopper feel good knowing that they may soon buy something that will make them feel good; does a reader feel the same about his books?  Is to be eternally stunned/paralysed by options something to be wished for, or merely feel neutral towards, or something to dread?

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Written by epistemysics

October 23, 2013 at 2:45 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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