A small thing, but on these open window nights I like the glimpse of the bell ringers, practising their change ringing (?). The contrast of that small bright room in the sky and the volume of the bells.
and then the dot dot dash of the bright slits that light the circular stairs to the tower.
Glad I replaced my old Flann O'Brien paperbacks that made me itchy with this volume. Not only handsome but also has quite the wrong fella on the front.
Now rereading the minor but very funny The Hard Life. It reminds me as much of Dickens as of Joyce though I couldn't tell you why.
Was very lucky at school because I liked everything we had to read (Animal Farm, the War Poets, The Crucible, Cyrano de Bergerac, much else) and have reread them all as an adult except this one, Cider with Rosie. Memories of it being sensual and shot through with shadows.
Ever since I read Ian MacDonald's description of The Beatles' I'm Only Sleeping as 'the murmerings of a modern Oblomov' I have wanted to read Oblomov. In true Oblomov fashion I have put this off for nearly thirty years but I'm now finally relaxing with Oblomov and it is severe.
'There's an immense silence ...
No. That's not true. That's an expression from books. There's an immense racket going on, an immense animal hubbub, crickets chirping, frantic grasshoppers, and the clink of the carapaces of beetles as they collide in midair and plummet earthward like beads of lead.'
