The Austen Tale

I lead a sort of half-life at the cottage. I eat, I sleep, I read, swim, cross-stitch and write occasionally. With the creature gone, I hardly walk, and I think we can safely say that it is more a quarter-life, for now. Oh, and I talk to people at meals, but the discussions are so bland these days they hardly count. And I answer my two cousins' silly questions on either my reading or cross-stitching.

Had I not known better, I would have donned dresses and taken long walks on the surrouding fields, all the while contemplating poetry and beaus, thinking I was a character in one of Austen’s novels. As it is, I contemplate not poetry, but my future. My uncle works at UiO (the university of Oslo, roughly translated), and has engaged himself on shipping me safely off to Oxford. He suggests – wisely, I fear – that I take the first year at UiO, and get some councellor or study guide to help me get into Oxford. I then get a taste of university life, have a few well-suited papers I can throw the admissions office’s way, and I will have someone to do the rough work for me. Is this the way to do it? There is, he claims, quite a few scholarship thingies I can apply for and get some much-needed funds when the time comes.

On other notes, the world is still empty and the house a void. It all lacks doggie, but we're getting by. Actually, we're dealing very well with everything - or so I imagine.

We contemplated buying a dog from some new breeder, but decided against it when the one we bought Nero from said she hoped we would buy one of hers, and offered, quite sincerely, to lend us one of her flats for a while. She is a remarkably sweet woman, and is a breeder of wonderful dogs. So, nine months it is, approximately, before there is a new dog in this house.

I got through Diane Setterfield's "The Thirteenth Tale" between cross-stitching and doing nothing, and despite a serious violation of the sacred semicolon, it was pretty good. I'm not quite sure yet, but I think I enjoyed it. I think I liked Vida, if nothing else. It induced something trance-like at times, but I don't know.  "The Sea, the Sea", by Iris Murdoch,  seems intriguing. For the life of me, I can't resist tales of the theatre narrated by middle-aged men. Aslo, it is allegedly Murdoch's best novel. It can't be a bad place to start with a new writer, can it?

"Strong Opinions" & "Lectures on Literature", both by my favourite emigré, must shortly be added to my library. Life without them might just not be worth the while. Nabokov is, quite possibly, the most wonderful man that ever lived.

P.S. I had no idea "The Tale" was such a hype, had I known I might never have picked it up. There's even a dedicated site. Good gracious.

P.P.S. I am in desperate need to discuss literature, theatre and all things related with someone. I am bursting to quote things at someone, and have them grin, or preferably smirk, back at me in understanding, because they've read just the same thing. No, disregard the understanding, I just want someone to know what I'm talking about, and to recommend me good reading. I want someone to tear the world apart with. (I think I just might type the Dickens-thingie I've been longing to write up tonight. I need to use my brain for something other than mush.)

Did I mention I have an urge to write about Dickens' characters, and their relations to his quest to change the world? If I happen to have omitted it, consider this the mention of it: I want to write some sort of essay about it, for the sheer heck, practice and good fun of it.

Perhaps writing fairy tales would be fun. "There once was a town built not unlike one of our skyscrapers: its houses clawed themselves into the face of a hill. A hill so steep only the lowest houses could be accessed by ground, the rest were reached by ladders or winding stairs. Owing to the steepness of the hill, the stairs could not be built outside the houses - the inhabitants would fall to their death -, so people walked straight through the neighbouring houses to get to their own."

The Austen Tale

I lead a sort of half-life at the cottage. I eat, I sleep, I read, swim, cross-stitch and write occasionally. With the creature gone, I hardly walk, and I think we can safely say that it is more a quarter-life, for now. Oh, and I talk to people at meals, but the discussions are so bland these days they hardly count. And I answer my two cousins' silly questions on either my reading or cross-stitching.

Had I not known better, I would have donned dresses and taken long walks on the surrouding fields, all the while contemplating poetry and beaus, thinking I was a character in one of Austen’s novels. As it is, I contemplate not poetry, but my future. My uncle works at UiO (the university of Oslo, roughly translated), and has engaged himself on shipping me safely off to Oxford. He suggests – wisely, I fear – that I take the first year at UiO, and get some councellor or study guide to help me get into Oxford. I then get a taste of university life, have a few well-suited papers I can throw the admissions office’s way, and I will have someone to do the rough work for me. Is this the way to do it? There is, he claims, quite a few scholarship thingies I can apply for and get some much-needed funds when the time comes.

On other notes, the world is still empty and the house a void. It all lacks doggie, but we're getting by. Actually, we're dealing very well with everything - or so I imagine.

We contemplated buying a dog from some new breeder, but decided against it when the one we bought Nero from said she hoped we would buy one of hers, and offered, quite sincerely, to lend us one of her flats for a while. She is a remarkably sweet woman, and is a breeder of wonderful dogs. So, nine months it is, approximately, before there is a new dog in this house.

I got through Diane Setterfield's "The Thirteenth Tale" between cross-stitching and doing nothing, and despite a serious violation of the sacred semicolon, it was pretty good. I'm not quite sure yet, but I think I enjoyed it. I think I liked Vida, if nothing else. It induced something trance-like at times, but I don't know.  "The Sea, the Sea", by Iris Murdoch,  seems intriguing. For the life of me, I can't resist tales of the theatre narrated by middle-aged men. Aslo, it is allegedly Murdoch's best novel. It can't be a bad place to start with a new writer, can it?

"Strong Opinions" & "Lectures on Literature", both by my favourite emigré, must shortly be added to my library. Life without them might just not be worth the while. Nabokov is, quite possibly, the most wonderful man that ever lived.

P.S. I had no idea "The Tale" was such a hype, had I known I might never have picked it up. There's even a dedicated site. Good gracious.

P.P.S. I am in desperate need to discuss literature, theatre and all things related with someone. I am bursting to quote things at someone, and have them grin, or preferably smirk, back at me in understanding, because they've read just the same thing. No, disregard the understanding, I just want someone to know what I'm talking about, and to recommend me good reading. I want someone to tear the world apart with. (I think I just might type the Dickens-thingie I've been longing to write up tonight. I need to use my brain for something other than mush.)

Did I mention I have an urge to write about Dickens' characters, and their relations to his quest to change the world? If I happen to have omitted it, consider this the mention of it: I want to write some sort of essay about it, for the sheer heck, practice and good fun of it.

Perhaps writing fairy tales would be fun. "There once was a town built not unlike one of our skyscrapers: its houses clawed themselves into the face of a hill. A hill so steep only the lowest houses could be accessed by ground, the rest were reached by ladders or winding stairs. Owing to the steepness of the hill, the stairs could not be built outside the houses - the inhabitants would fall to their death -, so people walked straight through the neighbouring houses to get to their own."