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National Poetry Month Day 12
I began reading The Life To Come and Other Stories today. I have read two and a half stories and the first two stories have what I would deem a pretty hefty queer subtext, and I'm still on the half of the book that's merely "not published because he was a relative unknown/not published because they suck" stories, not the post-watershed "too gay for publication" stories. Which is plez.
As there was a hailstorm in my lunchbreak THANK YOU, WEATHER GODS, I marched off to the IWM for lunch, which involved me standing outside the gates for a good five minutes watching a lady and her daughter feed a squirrel. They were kind of in the way, but I didn't want to go round them and scare the squirrel off and spoil their fun, so I waited. Not being in any particular hurry.
Spent my lunchbreak sitting on the floor opposite T. E.'s Brough Superior, reading Forster's unpublished short stories, because I like my free time like I like my coffee: filled with dead gay writers from the first half of the 20th century. People kept coming in, looking disappointed, and leaving again. Some of them had some monumentally stupid conversations about the bike. One guy spent a while explaining to his son who T. E. was (not ... strictly accurately, but whatever, he got the war wrong...) but most people were in and out fairly quickly. Anyway, it was gratifyingly busy in there but not overwhelming. I do like to see my London institutions getting visited.
National Poetry Month Day 12
I began reading The Life To Come and Other Stories today. I have read two and a half stories and the first two stories have what I would deem a pretty hefty queer subtext, and I'm still on the half of the book that's merely "not published because he was a relative unknown/not published because they suck" stories, not the post-watershed "too gay for publication" stories. Which is plez.
As there was a hailstorm in my lunchbreak THANK YOU, WEATHER GODS, I marched off to the IWM for lunch, which involved me standing outside the gates for a good five minutes watching a lady and her daughter feed a squirrel. They were kind of in the way, but I didn't want to go round them and scare the squirrel off and spoil their fun, so I waited. Not being in any particular hurry.
Spent my lunchbreak sitting on the floor opposite T. E.'s Brough Superior, reading Forster's unpublished short stories, because I like my free time like I like my coffee: filled with dead gay writers from the first half of the 20th century. People kept coming in, looking disappointed, and leaving again. Some of them had some monumentally stupid conversations about the bike. One guy spent a while explaining to his son who T. E. was (not ... strictly accurately, but whatever, he got the war wrong...) but most people were in and out fairly quickly. Anyway, it was gratifyingly busy in there but not overwhelming. I do like to see my London institutions getting visited.