inconsistencies
The Andre & Oscar bio didn't hold my interest very long, a bit too salacious and sensationalist. And eventually I remembered "er, dri, how many Wilde bios have you read? You know all this and you're not particularly interested in Gide." So cast that aside and this morning picked up the book on writers and their faiths. Literary Converts: Spiritual Inspiration In An Age Of Unbelief by Joseph Pearce which seemed a little suspicious by the fourth chapter - all the writers had found faith by the end of each chapter and each faith just happened to be Christianity. *sigh* Repetitive much? As I said to Ari at one memorable dinner, "I am not naive, I'm stoopid!"
And Trez says "bow down before the one you serve." Thank you, Dark Over ShortLord.
Although Literary Converts did remind me how much I enjoyed G K Chesterton. I must go back to The Man Who Was Thursday, hopefully read it all the way through this time. The Father Brown stories were so lovely and subtly provocative.
Which reminds me. Had an oddly disturbing dream about Gaiman last night - er, for those who don't know, Gaiman and Pratchett are huge huge Chesterton fanboys, I only discovered GK through Gaiman - in that there was a rather lurid sexual element to it all. Ewwwwwwwwwwww! Nononono. *scrubs brain* Ugh. Where's mah Corgan?
So am forty-eight pages into Orwell by DJ Taylor and partly intrigued partly repulsed partly cognisant of the theory the man orchestrated myths of himself as much as his world. Mind you, I'm sitting here, eyeing the bloody doorstop that is the Byron bio, last of the library haul. Sprain my wrist, sprain my brain, Georges?
To counter this literary promiscuity, I inadvertantly stayed up all night, re-reading Daughter Of The Forest, the first of Marillier's Sevenwaters trilogy. Teared up at several points, loving the book with renewed passion. I did love the book on first read, the thing is it sorta suffered when I read the next one and fell much harder and louder in love with that one. So it was really beautiful to go back to the beginning, almost forgetting the story to come, this time appreciating the strength, complexity and purity of the characters so much more, marvelling at the terrible epic paths Juliet made them travel. And god, how deeply she goes into the trauma of Sorcha, I never quite realised and never quite respected her for that as much as I do now.
Can't help but wonder if my disappointment with Marillier's latest is because she may have rushed the writing or my own lack of perspective. Because, like the latest, my favourite of her books was also the second in a trilogy. And yet the difference in writing, the difference in my reaction ... funny how on the rarest occasions, I'd rather the fault lay with me than the writer. Cos then they're still great and I'm stoopid. How's that for debasing yourself for a belief you made up, dri?
I say inadvertantly cos when I finished, I looked up and was actually startled to see dawnlight around the edges of the curtains.
Pretty Hate Machine seems strangely comfortable and familiar. Must be all those synths. Hee.
And Trez says "bow down before the one you serve." Thank you, Dark Over ShortLord.
Although Literary Converts did remind me how much I enjoyed G K Chesterton. I must go back to The Man Who Was Thursday, hopefully read it all the way through this time. The Father Brown stories were so lovely and subtly provocative.
Which reminds me. Had an oddly disturbing dream about Gaiman last night - er, for those who don't know, Gaiman and Pratchett are huge huge Chesterton fanboys, I only discovered GK through Gaiman - in that there was a rather lurid sexual element to it all. Ewwwwwwwwwwww! Nononono. *scrubs brain* Ugh. Where's mah Corgan?
So am forty-eight pages into Orwell by DJ Taylor and partly intrigued partly repulsed partly cognisant of the theory the man orchestrated myths of himself as much as his world. Mind you, I'm sitting here, eyeing the bloody doorstop that is the Byron bio, last of the library haul. Sprain my wrist, sprain my brain, Georges?
To counter this literary promiscuity, I inadvertantly stayed up all night, re-reading Daughter Of The Forest, the first of Marillier's Sevenwaters trilogy. Teared up at several points, loving the book with renewed passion. I did love the book on first read, the thing is it sorta suffered when I read the next one and fell much harder and louder in love with that one. So it was really beautiful to go back to the beginning, almost forgetting the story to come, this time appreciating the strength, complexity and purity of the characters so much more, marvelling at the terrible epic paths Juliet made them travel. And god, how deeply she goes into the trauma of Sorcha, I never quite realised and never quite respected her for that as much as I do now.
Can't help but wonder if my disappointment with Marillier's latest is because she may have rushed the writing or my own lack of perspective. Because, like the latest, my favourite of her books was also the second in a trilogy. And yet the difference in writing, the difference in my reaction ... funny how on the rarest occasions, I'd rather the fault lay with me than the writer. Cos then they're still great and I'm stoopid. How's that for debasing yourself for a belief you made up, dri?
I say inadvertantly cos when I finished, I looked up and was actually startled to see dawnlight around the edges of the curtains.
Pretty Hate Machine seems strangely comfortable and familiar. Must be all those synths. Hee.