I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises, and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air—look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire—why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me. No, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
Tonight’s teatime grammatical debate revolves around whether Iris is allowed to use ‘fishes’ when she means ‘fish’. Apparently it depends:
Well, having missed a couple of days, I think I’ll have to carry on into March to make up for the lost posts. Hope that’s not too far outside the rules.
It’s been a very hard week – pitching for work, helping out with PGCE interviews, teaching lessons, and the concomitant sleepless nights thinking about all the things like these and others that we have to get done before half term.
So, now that the work is over and half term is here, I have nothing to say. I find that this feeling of blankness, suspended in the Friday night after the end of a term, is like anaesthetic. On the floor of my car there’s a bag of marking, which I really intend to take back to school in a marked state, but which I haven’t yet been able to bring inside the house. On my kitchen table valentine cards that my kids drew for my wife jostle with car keys, scissors, oven gloves, pencil cases, a few textbooks and an almost read ‘Goodbye to Berlin’ (Absolutely brilliant, if you’re interested!).
By tomorrow afternoon, all of this will be cleared away, and half term will be in full swing as we get ready to host a party and plan day trips with the cousins, but tonight everything is suspended, paused.
In brief – very VERY busy, and I’m beyond my book time. I’m trying to read more non-fiction, mainly because I really enjoy it, and because it gives me fantastic dreams. I have a problem though. I’m a plot junkie – I have to know what happens. This often leads me to rush a book, just to get to the end. I usually start off at a measured pace, and feel like I am enjoying my read. However, like the opposite of a good meal, as I read I speed up. By the end of a novel I’m turning pages very quickly, as I anxiously flit between looking at the ticking alarm clock to printed page. ‘One more page, one more chapter’, I think, until the book is done and it is way past time I was asleep.
Now, if I really enjoy a book, I put it back on the to be read shelf and then, in a book or two’s time, I read it again. If it is really good I read it again straight away. I’ve just re-finished Regeneration, and it’s even better the second time round, where you can really catch the intertextual references to T.S. Eliot, and pick up on the subtlety of the types of ‘regeneration’ and (you probably spotted it the first time round) the different ‘generational’ conflicts and relationships.
I’ve just got to the end of “The Shiralee” published by @FoxFinchTepper, and wept (‘like a boy in a butcher’s shop’, you’re entitled to mock). I’m putting it to one side to pick up ‘Goodbye to Berlin’, but I’m going to return to The Shiralee when I’ve done with that. I’m a converted re-reader.
Feeling very grown up. Bought my first ever bottle of whisky.
Mrs Podesta and I found ourselves greatly moved by Wolf Hall and the portrayal of the English sweating disease. Interestingly, we don’t really know what it was. http://www.historytoday.com/jared-bernard/dreaded-sweat-other-medieval-epidemic