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philenaHwat! Such was my break. I worked not on BA. Instead I tussled with
Amtrak to get home, of which the less said the better, but of which the
following must be said. Train scheduled to arrive at 9:30 pm. Train
arrived at 4:30 am. Aside from that, all was well: the seats were
comfy, the ride smooth and quiet, but it is situations like these when
we discover what conditions for acceptability are necessary and which
are sufficient. Comfort is necessary, but promptness is sufficient. But
let's have a grand shout-out to my parents who stayed awake to pick me
up, where I slept and read. Lots. Then I went to Berkeley, where I did
the same, but in the company of Daniel, and with the addition of coffee
shops. Shall we inspect my spoils?
Read
Rates of Exchange, by Malcolm Bradbury; courtesy of my mother. A jaded-professor book, I believe, and while clever and enjoyable, not quite the sort of thing I would look for more of. At least, not until I'm old and have my Ph.D.
A Son of the Circus, by John Irving; courtesy of Half-Price Books. I don't know why I persist in liking this fellow, considering that most of his books focus so much on the sexually perverse that I get nervous when people look over my shoulder, since very few of pages will stand up well to the prudish public glance. And yet, there's something compelling about this story of a transsexual Indian serial killer of prostitutes.
Half-read
The Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James; courtesy of Daniel. James is one of those authors whose names I hear thrown around frequently, but with whose writing I am thoroughly unfamiliar. I'm about half-done so far, and though I often find myself looking at sentences in complete befuddlement, puzzling over them for minutes at a time before I can unravel their sense, and though I often find myself looking up words in a dictionary (for example, "solecism," "anodyne," and "crewel") in the sad situation of needing their definitions to comprehend sometimes an entire paragraph, I'm enjoying the work immensely. When I do figure out how the sentences are constructed, I'm so charmed at their novelty that I sometimes have to remind myself that my goal is to read the story, not parse the prose. Although I understand he is well-known for his prose, a fame which became notoriety in his old age, and, when he decided to become a British subject, led his sponsor to perjure himself in stating that Mr. James could both speak and write the English language. As for the story, I don't trust Madame Merle. Not one bit. And I do like Ralph. Isabel's still a bit of a blank, though, which is not a quality one hopes for in one's heroine.
The Trouble with Poetry, by Billy Collins; courtesy of Daniel. I really like the poem "Revenant," which Daniel reads extremely well.
Unread
San Francisco Stories, edited by John Miller; courtesy of Daniel's uncle Robby.
The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco; courtesy of Half-Price Books.
Foxmask, by Juliet Marillier, courtesy of Barnes and Noble. I had completely given up hope of this book ever being released in the US!
The Language Instinct, by Stephen Pinker; courtesy of Cody's Books.
The Complete Poems of Elizabeth Bishop; courtesy of my Uncle Ron.
To be Re-Read
The Enormous Egg, by Oliver Butterworth; courtesy of Shakespeare and Company Books. What a fabulous story! I was so excited to find this book, which I remember from childhood, and which is about a Triceratops that hatches from a chicken egg! What could be cooler?
After all this bookstoring Daniel and I met up with his parents who took us to Death Valley, where the weather was lovely and clear and 60-70 degrees, while in Northern California behind us rains and a burst pipe in the backyard conspired to make the parents' house take unwilling part in a recreation of the mid-diluvian era. And where I had great fun scrambling among the rocks and chasing sunsets. 4:45 is the magic hour to be at Zabriskie Pt watching them, I discovered, but by the time we finally got the timing right the clouds did not participate, and the show was altogether lackluster. We did, however, catch some lovely footage of coyotes, which will still cause Daniel to collapse in coos and try to pet the photographs. If he manages to make space on his worldisround website, I'll post the link so you can see the pictures too. Some of them are very good--particularly the ones of us. And of animals. However, speaking of animals, I must mention that I dislike this turn the mice have taken. They used to be relatively discreet, scampering quietly under the floorboards and not bothering anyway. Not so anymore. I still haven't seen them, but considering the noise they make, they must be having break-dancing parties down there. I bought a sonic repellent thing. It should be here very, very soon, I hope, if for no other reason than that I worry the mousies will hurt themselves in their aerobic fits.
And before I sign off, I will say that no New Year's Eve is spent poorly if it is spent in the company of Lawrence Olivier as Mr. Darcy. Champagne is optional.
Oh, yes. And I updated my resume before tackling the Old Church Slavonic. But more about that later.
Read
Rates of Exchange, by Malcolm Bradbury; courtesy of my mother. A jaded-professor book, I believe, and while clever and enjoyable, not quite the sort of thing I would look for more of. At least, not until I'm old and have my Ph.D.
A Son of the Circus, by John Irving; courtesy of Half-Price Books. I don't know why I persist in liking this fellow, considering that most of his books focus so much on the sexually perverse that I get nervous when people look over my shoulder, since very few of pages will stand up well to the prudish public glance. And yet, there's something compelling about this story of a transsexual Indian serial killer of prostitutes.
Half-read
The Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James; courtesy of Daniel. James is one of those authors whose names I hear thrown around frequently, but with whose writing I am thoroughly unfamiliar. I'm about half-done so far, and though I often find myself looking at sentences in complete befuddlement, puzzling over them for minutes at a time before I can unravel their sense, and though I often find myself looking up words in a dictionary (for example, "solecism," "anodyne," and "crewel") in the sad situation of needing their definitions to comprehend sometimes an entire paragraph, I'm enjoying the work immensely. When I do figure out how the sentences are constructed, I'm so charmed at their novelty that I sometimes have to remind myself that my goal is to read the story, not parse the prose. Although I understand he is well-known for his prose, a fame which became notoriety in his old age, and, when he decided to become a British subject, led his sponsor to perjure himself in stating that Mr. James could both speak and write the English language. As for the story, I don't trust Madame Merle. Not one bit. And I do like Ralph. Isabel's still a bit of a blank, though, which is not a quality one hopes for in one's heroine.
The Trouble with Poetry, by Billy Collins; courtesy of Daniel. I really like the poem "Revenant," which Daniel reads extremely well.
Unread
San Francisco Stories, edited by John Miller; courtesy of Daniel's uncle Robby.
The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco; courtesy of Half-Price Books.
Foxmask, by Juliet Marillier, courtesy of Barnes and Noble. I had completely given up hope of this book ever being released in the US!
The Language Instinct, by Stephen Pinker; courtesy of Cody's Books.
The Complete Poems of Elizabeth Bishop; courtesy of my Uncle Ron.
To be Re-Read
The Enormous Egg, by Oliver Butterworth; courtesy of Shakespeare and Company Books. What a fabulous story! I was so excited to find this book, which I remember from childhood, and which is about a Triceratops that hatches from a chicken egg! What could be cooler?
After all this bookstoring Daniel and I met up with his parents who took us to Death Valley, where the weather was lovely and clear and 60-70 degrees, while in Northern California behind us rains and a burst pipe in the backyard conspired to make the parents' house take unwilling part in a recreation of the mid-diluvian era. And where I had great fun scrambling among the rocks and chasing sunsets. 4:45 is the magic hour to be at Zabriskie Pt watching them, I discovered, but by the time we finally got the timing right the clouds did not participate, and the show was altogether lackluster. We did, however, catch some lovely footage of coyotes, which will still cause Daniel to collapse in coos and try to pet the photographs. If he manages to make space on his worldisround website, I'll post the link so you can see the pictures too. Some of them are very good--particularly the ones of us. And of animals. However, speaking of animals, I must mention that I dislike this turn the mice have taken. They used to be relatively discreet, scampering quietly under the floorboards and not bothering anyway. Not so anymore. I still haven't seen them, but considering the noise they make, they must be having break-dancing parties down there. I bought a sonic repellent thing. It should be here very, very soon, I hope, if for no other reason than that I worry the mousies will hurt themselves in their aerobic fits.
And before I sign off, I will say that no New Year's Eve is spent poorly if it is spent in the company of Lawrence Olivier as Mr. Darcy. Champagne is optional.
Oh, yes. And I updated my resume before tackling the Old Church Slavonic. But more about that later.
Laurence Olivier as Mr. Darcy
Date: 2006-01-07 12:14 pm (UTC)Clara's mother