A book I had read in a trance non-stop in my university library, a couple of years ago which I reread recently. It’s a great feeling to read a book with a protagonist that you can really relate with. Christopher Boone is in that regard the closest I have come to relating to any fictional character (more than antiheroes like Kingsley Amis’s Jim, Holden Caulfield, the young Tom Riddle, to stretch a point). He’s almost like my pal, the pal I’d like to keep at a distance because neither of us likes overfamiliarity. It feels refreshing to read the world so logically and neatly, to know some people do think this way and that most people are indeed muddled and berserk when they grow up. Continue reading
I would have refused to educate him if I were not free to marry him according to his own choice, which is mine.
Pen on A6 paper.
The cherry blossom
Tumbles from the highest tree
One needs more petrol.
Late frost burns the bloom
Would a fool not let the belt
Restrain the body?
(Automated voice warnings from Newton’s badly damaged car, Dick Turpin)
Good Omens (1990). Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Spoiler Alert! Tedium Alert!
A story about “divided we fall but united we stand”. Also a story so transparent that real parental fears of solitary children wandering off to their doom are approbated by the children in the film themselves realizing that those fears are really valid (“This is what it wants,” says Beverley, “It wants to divide us.”).
The clown is supposed to be cute and at the same time dreadful, according to the director’s remark in Wikipedia. Well apart from the fact that the low angle shots emphazize his gigantism in the pov of the children, he seems fairly okay. The teeth thing was awesome though. Is this a film for children? If it is, it must be pretty scary for them. Because it addresses real childhood fears like bullies, bullies and bullies.
I suppose it is submerged memories that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theatre is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?
W G Sebald. The Rings of Saturn.