(no subject)

I finished Faulks' Human Traces, some time ago. And I think I've written that it was a brick before? Well, it took sheer strength of will to stick with it through the insane digressions and long lectures, but in the heart-breaking beauty of the end. As Daniel dies in the mountains, Sonia knows her husband has been unfaithful, Thomas suffers from alzheimers and is as lost as his patients was, and both he and Jacques feel that they have achieved nothing, it was all worth it. Not because I revel in their misery, but because it was all so very human. This reviewer says it all better than me, really. I'm too feverish with spring and time off to make a particularly note-worthy writer.

I think I read something in-between as well, but I can't remember what, so I'll just move on to Venus as a Boy, by Sutherland. Very easily read, reminiscient of stream-of-consciousness, but not quite it. Short, to the point, and intriguing. And from London. It was haunting, I still think of those last lines. Cupid's (protagonist) final realisation still twirls about in my head. It was played as a monologue, it seems, at the National Theatre of Scotland. I wish I could have seen it, it must have made a tremendously powerful play.

Oh, I must have finished Jane Eyre some time ago, too. And now I am reading Wide Sargasso Sea, which is Rhys imagining the life of Rochester's wife, before she burnt down Thornfield.



On a non-literary note, I had my hair done today. Picture here. My hair-stylist decided she wanted to make it messy, and I think I'll have to admit that it is very cute.

(no subject)

I finished Faulks' Human Traces, some time ago. And I think I've written that it was a brick before? Well, it took sheer strength of will to stick with it through the insane digressions and long lectures, but in the heart-breaking beauty of the end. As Daniel dies in the mountains, Sonia knows her husband has been unfaithful, Thomas suffers from alzheimers and is as lost as his patients was, and both he and Jacques feel that they have achieved nothing, it was all worth it. Not because I revel in their misery, but because it was all so very human. This reviewer says it all better than me, really. I'm too feverish with spring and time off to make a particularly note-worthy writer.

I think I read something in-between as well, but I can't remember what, so I'll just move on to Venus as a Boy, by Sutherland. Very easily read, reminiscient of stream-of-consciousness, but not quite it. Short, to the point, and intriguing. And from London. It was haunting, I still think of those last lines. Cupid's (protagonist) final realisation still twirls about in my head. It was played as a monologue, it seems, at the National Theatre of Scotland. I wish I could have seen it, it must have made a tremendously powerful play.

Oh, I must have finished Jane Eyre some time ago, too. And now I am reading Wide Sargasso Sea, which is Rhys imagining the life of Rochester's wife, before she burnt down Thornfield.



On a non-literary note, I had my hair done today. Picture here. My hair-stylist decided she wanted to make it messy, and I think I'll have to admit that it is very cute.