"god you make me sing funny things about you / you infect my mind all the time you do"
1 Comments Published by H on 13 April 2006 at 10:39 PM.
Today's musical revival is Ed Harcourt who has been dredged from the murky depths of my iTunes library because She Fell Into My Arms popped up whilst I had my whole library on shuffle. And what a fine companion for a blustery day spent cooped up indoors than a man with a weakness for writing torch songs. Particularly one who can carry off a fine hat such as this one:
I've had a particularly productive day despite not rolling out of bed until the rather ripe hour of 11am. Work didn't actually start until 2pm as I frittered away my precious hours by making copious cups of tea (an effort to ward off a scratchy sore throat) and talking on the phone to Megs for an hour and a half about television. I have embargoed myself from any social engagements until the end of the semester bar Lien's upcoming birthday and Steph's welcome home celebrations. Goodness knows how the social whirl of polite society in South London (an oxymoron if ever there was one) will cope without my luminous presence. I surprised myself with my own industriousness today, I started and completed Blue Diary by Alice Hoffman, resisted the urge to watch the Doctor Who double bill, failed to resist listening to Tennant's Radio 1 interview and made a cheese omelette for dinner. Fabulous. In all fairness, the only reason I managed to complete Blue Diary was that it was a rather easy read. It was pretty compelling but badly written. I hate these writers who just think that shovelling in barrowloads of fey, wistful poetic imagery makes for genuinely lyrical prose:
"Surely if circumstances had been different, Jorie would have walked down another path, but this is the course her life has taken, and it has led her to this place, a world where some people tell you too much and others tell you nothing at all. Here in her garden, the Japanese beetles glitter like stars and the sky is endless and black. It is impossible to stop some things, rainfall, for instance, and love at first sight, and the slow and steady path of sorrow."
Combine this with overabundant descriptions of azure blue skies, the fragrant scent of honeysuckle in the evenings, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and writing that has all the subtlety of an anvil and you've got a fairly good idea of the novel. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the book because the plot propells you through the book but I guess I'm just a little ashamed at enjoying books like these. I feel similarly about books like The Time-Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger and After You'd Gone by Maggie O'Farrell. I have no problem with reading trashy chick-lit novels but there's something about this kind of writing with literary pretensions that irks me.
I am in somewhat of a restless mood though and this may be a factor in my possibly unfair condemnation of Blue Diary. I'm still worrying endlessly about the dissertation and for a few days now I've been thinking that perhaps I should just throw caution to the wind and start writing and see where it takes me. I've resigned myself to the fact that I haven't been very well organised and that I probably won't do as well as I could have done with this which irritates me no end because I was really enthusiastic about my topic. Nevermind, I'm in the final lap now and I guess I'll just have to do whatever is possible and hope that I end up with what I want. The silliest thing is that I've spent half an hour writing this entry and I complain about now having enough time. Sigh.
On that note, I should take my leave and continue reading Bluebeard's Room because I still have Kurt Vonnegut to read as well as Rebecca and The Piano to watch when all I really want to do is watch Good Friday tv and stuff myself with cheap confectionery. I leave you with some more of my experiements with my Ixus. Gute nacht.
I've had a particularly productive day despite not rolling out of bed until the rather ripe hour of 11am. Work didn't actually start until 2pm as I frittered away my precious hours by making copious cups of tea (an effort to ward off a scratchy sore throat) and talking on the phone to Megs for an hour and a half about television. I have embargoed myself from any social engagements until the end of the semester bar Lien's upcoming birthday and Steph's welcome home celebrations. Goodness knows how the social whirl of polite society in South London (an oxymoron if ever there was one) will cope without my luminous presence. I surprised myself with my own industriousness today, I started and completed Blue Diary by Alice Hoffman, resisted the urge to watch the Doctor Who double bill, failed to resist listening to Tennant's Radio 1 interview and made a cheese omelette for dinner. Fabulous. In all fairness, the only reason I managed to complete Blue Diary was that it was a rather easy read. It was pretty compelling but badly written. I hate these writers who just think that shovelling in barrowloads of fey, wistful poetic imagery makes for genuinely lyrical prose:
"Surely if circumstances had been different, Jorie would have walked down another path, but this is the course her life has taken, and it has led her to this place, a world where some people tell you too much and others tell you nothing at all. Here in her garden, the Japanese beetles glitter like stars and the sky is endless and black. It is impossible to stop some things, rainfall, for instance, and love at first sight, and the slow and steady path of sorrow."
Combine this with overabundant descriptions of azure blue skies, the fragrant scent of honeysuckle in the evenings, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and writing that has all the subtlety of an anvil and you've got a fairly good idea of the novel. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy the book because the plot propells you through the book but I guess I'm just a little ashamed at enjoying books like these. I feel similarly about books like The Time-Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger and After You'd Gone by Maggie O'Farrell. I have no problem with reading trashy chick-lit novels but there's something about this kind of writing with literary pretensions that irks me.
I am in somewhat of a restless mood though and this may be a factor in my possibly unfair condemnation of Blue Diary. I'm still worrying endlessly about the dissertation and for a few days now I've been thinking that perhaps I should just throw caution to the wind and start writing and see where it takes me. I've resigned myself to the fact that I haven't been very well organised and that I probably won't do as well as I could have done with this which irritates me no end because I was really enthusiastic about my topic. Nevermind, I'm in the final lap now and I guess I'll just have to do whatever is possible and hope that I end up with what I want. The silliest thing is that I've spent half an hour writing this entry and I complain about now having enough time. Sigh.
On that note, I should take my leave and continue reading Bluebeard's Room because I still have Kurt Vonnegut to read as well as Rebecca and The Piano to watch when all I really want to do is watch Good Friday tv and stuff myself with cheap confectionery. I leave you with some more of my experiements with my Ixus. Gute nacht.
It's impossible to stop rainfall? Has she never heard of an umbrella? Or, like, a house? I really want a cupcake, but I don't normally keep cherry jam in the house, or indeed butter. "Everybody knows that Badger loves mashed potatoes, and Paris loves grotesquely-deformed dogs (in designer clothes) and washing cars while semi-naked." That's a TV show that has to be made. Maybe it'll have to be Ikea, I guess at least they don't have Linda Barker.