Skip to main content

That Time of the Night

Now:

It’s a Saturday night and I’ve had my fill of morality plays and constructed subjectivity for one night. It’s been a while since I’ve written about books. I suppose that’s either because there’s no time or because I'm lazy. I'm not going to make a decision tree. I’m trying to sneak peaks at Brighton Rock in preparation for the Rowan Joffe film, and Alexandra Harris’ Romantic Moderns but without much continued success.

Book-Related:

A few weeks ago I spoke with Penguin Great Ideas superstar designer David Pearson in an interview for the Cherwell. I found a fellow-enthusiast in David; both of us fans of Penguin’s elegant volumes. In fact I’ve been a longtime Penguin groupie. (They have a good backlist and their visual art is impeccable. And the postcards...) I’ve begun a small collection of grande dames: Nancy Mitford, Rose Macaulay, Iris Murdoch, Muriel Spark. My favorite title is one I picked up in Woodstock last December, Reading for Profit.



I hoped that it would spell a sure way to find a job that enabled me to read and get paid obscene amounts of money for it. Instead it is a series of lectures on literature given by an Allied prisoner of war during the Second World War. Close guess.

The Sweetness of Life now is:

Late night glass of red; Iron & Wine; A bout de soufflé tomorrow; remembering a small boy yelling on the street at the top of his lungs ‘Will anybody find meeeeeeeee somebody to love’ this afternoon; the prospect of running in the crisp misted parks tomorrow morning; visitors coming from Seattle this Thursday to nest in a warm attic -

Comments

Ann said…
I love those Penguins too, they bring back so many memories of when I was first buying books. 'Reading for Profit' is one I haven't come across though and I as I very much enjoy reading about books I must see if I can get hold of a copy. Thanks for prompt.
Gfulmore said…
Please don't stop writing about books - too few people do now, as we drift slowly away from the written word to the often inferior visual word..same late night glass of red - but cold blue-sky Alberta and Ride Nowhere reissue, Divine Comedy, Electric Eden and Tinkers for comfort - enjoy your blog, please continue on with literary adventures...

Popular posts from this blog

I’ve a short story in the latest edition of The Stinging Fly , which is a brilliant Irish literary journal. If you’d like a copy (or if you like Claire-Louise Bennett or Kevin Barry or Danielle McLaughlin or Colin Barrett, who’ve all been published by SF ) you can get it here Or, you know, go to Dublin.

Monologuing

My previous experience of Rachel Cusk is restricted to her travel book on Italy, The Last Supper , which was withdrawn in Britain because of objections from individuals who found themselves featured, unflatteringly, within its pages. It's very difficult not to write a book about Italy without being smug. Then I read reviews (especially hatchet jobs) about her controversial divorce memoir, Aftermath . I confess I’m suspicious when a writer writes memoir after memoir, as if his own life is the only field of interest. I read memoirs – I am moved by the familiar voice – but I’m wary of their cultural predominance. Self-knowledge is a good springboard for knowledge of others. Orbiting one’s own life without ever calling into question the limitation of it seems myopic. (This, however, is not to say that personal writing can be divorced from art, or that it should be.) But Outline is an expose of how fascinating and selfish and dreary and inescapable monologues on the self can be. The
There’s a sudden late surge of warmth in the rough winds today and it’s the perfect day to read one of John Clare’s best sonnets: November Sybil of months & worshipper of winds I love thee rude & boisterous as thou art & scraps of joy my wandering ever finds Mid thy uproarious madness – when the start Of sudden tempests stir the forrest leaves Into hoarse fury till the shower set free Still the hugh swells & ebb the mighty heaves That swing the forrest like a troubled sea I love the wizard noise & rave in turn Half vacant thoughts & self imagined rhymes Then hide me from the shower a short sojourn Neath ivied oak & mutter to the winds Wishing their melody belonged to me That I might breath a living song to thee