Dodgy
Socked in with grayness, rain, wind, sleet, and snow; a routine run turned into an epic cold shower on the uphill run back home. Around the first seating of dinner, hail or sleet or something frozen began pelting the house, making us worry about the commute for our other family members.
Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine, a weird title but I guess it worked, wrapped up in an unexpected fashion. More slatherings of philosophy were lashed upon it, and I think I need a break from this writer. Queued up is a novel titled Riders in the Chariot by Patrick White, an Australian author, (1912-1990), who sounds as if he was a stand up guy. From the biographical note inside:"When he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1971, he did not attend the ceremony but, with his takings and some of his own money, created an award to help older writers who hadn't received their due: the first recipient was Christina Stead. Late in life, when asked for a list of his loves, White responded: 'Silence, the company of friends, unexpected honesty, reading, going to the pictures, dreams, uncluttered landscapes, city streets, faces, good food, cooking small meals, whisky, sex, pugs, the thought of an Australian republic, my ashes floating off at last.'"
Murdoch's The Sacred and Profane Love Machine, a weird title but I guess it worked, wrapped up in an unexpected fashion. More slatherings of philosophy were lashed upon it, and I think I need a break from this writer. Queued up is a novel titled Riders in the Chariot by Patrick White, an Australian author, (1912-1990), who sounds as if he was a stand up guy. From the biographical note inside:"When he was awarded the Nobel Prize in 1971, he did not attend the ceremony but, with his takings and some of his own money, created an award to help older writers who hadn't received their due: the first recipient was Christina Stead. Late in life, when asked for a list of his loves, White responded: 'Silence, the company of friends, unexpected honesty, reading, going to the pictures, dreams, uncluttered landscapes, city streets, faces, good food, cooking small meals, whisky, sex, pugs, the thought of an Australian republic, my ashes floating off at last.'"
posted by isabelita at 10:13 AM
7 Comments:
Unexpected honesty. Now there is a real treasure.
I would say unexpected great novels, having just read one. My wife had consumed it first and left it lying about. 'Restless,' by William Boyd. A spy novel, of all things, yet remarkable on a few scores. The quality of prose is very high but not overwrought, and Boyd writes from two female perspectives believably and without apparent effort (an ability I consider so rare as to be a reason for not reading a novel). His understanding of spycraft and the hidden history of World War Two is quite penetrating. And my fiction reading is done for the first half of '08! ;-)
I'm looking forward to diving into this lovely-looking large book!
So, you only read a couple of works of fiction per year? Of course, as a bookgroup friend of ours puts it,"It's ALL fiction!"
I don't know why I didn't recommend this book to you ages ago: In the Autumn Wind, by Dorothy Stroup. The author is a friend of one of my sisters and, unfortunately, is now in declining health. It is the story of a woman and her family who cope with the A-bomb and its aftermath in Hiroshima. I read the book a good twenty years ago and I still remember it as being one of the most touching pieces of fiction I've read. It has a series stories to tell, all told on eggshells, and I found it riveting. It's probably out of print, but I'm sure it's available in libraries and possibly through Amazon. If you can't find it, I bought a copy a few years ago just to be sure I have one...though I haven't re-read it yet, but now that I'm thinking of it, what a great idea!
That list is a pure treasure. I love it. Now I am going to have to read something by him after such an inspired quote.
Your weather doesn't seem to be shaping up as well as the accuweather folks had predicted. After all this time, I don't know why I ever believe the weather reports. As you said, It's all fiction.
That novel sounds good, mfm. You know, there's a little Japanese man at my gym who fucking SURVIVED Hiroshima - a wall fell on him when he was about 6 years old...
Robin, today was again a warmish gift. It's crazy.
"the first seating"
Heh.
Oh, it's probably more like 6-8 fictions a year, but my regular reading is usually classed as "non-fiction."
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