The cycle continues when we don't question what we're into
The traditional extravaganza of deep-frying known as my family's Hanukkah party went the way of every other communal gathering this year, but on Sunday we still managed to celebrate my niece's seventh birthday with latkes and cupcakes and candlelighting and presents. Months ago, I had found a beautiful print of a black cat looping the air with a pearl as green as its eyes between its paws like a Chinese dragon which I hoped she would like because of her feelings about dragons and because of the black cat she has known her entire life; she did. From my parents she got things like books and science kits. I gave ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch the memoir by Norman Lloyd whose existence I had been concealing from him ever since we caught Hitchcock's Saboteur (1942) last month on TCM. I got some of the thickest socks I have ever seen and copies of Susanna Clarke's Piranesi (2020) and Sarah Monette's Somewhere Beneath Those Waves (2011); I still want a sequel volume to The Bone Key (2007/2011). My father continued his ongoing repairs of the dryer, my mother was actually persuaded to sit down and eat instead of living over the stove as she normally does for this holiday, and my niece and my godchild bonded virtually over dreidel towers, Zoom filters, and a lot of bouncy physical mirroring that selkie described as "yoga night at the asylum," but it seems to have gone sufficiently well that they both want to do it again. John le Carré died and it is unfair to think of it as the last falling of the Berlin Wall because one of the things that was so important about him as a writer was not just how he changed the rules of the game—his name became its own genre; it is impossible to write about spies without his shadow falling across the edge of the page, looking as often as not like some undistinguished retiree polishing his glasses with the fat end of his tie—but how he went on writing in the world after the Cold War, still engaged, still relevant, still furious about how the unknowable, undeniable realities of words, ideals, people could be sacrificed to the convenience of ideologies or simply self-interest. For someone who identified repeatedly as a liar, he cared visibly about the true things. I looked forward to each new one of his books and now I am afraid I have read the last. My mother was re-reading Smiley's People (1979) last night after my brother's family went home. I am tired of losing necessary voices, even as I know it's not a zero-sum chorus. The lenses of every age should be a kaleidoscope. I just heard that the results of the electoral college are coming in as their states voted they should. Tonight the candle we light is for justice.
spatch the memoir by Norman Lloyd whose existence I had been concealing from him ever since we caught Hitchcock's Saboteur (1942) last month on TCM. I got some of the thickest socks I have ever seen and copies of Susanna Clarke's Piranesi (2020) and Sarah Monette's Somewhere Beneath Those Waves (2011); I still want a sequel volume to The Bone Key (2007/2011). My father continued his ongoing repairs of the dryer, my mother was actually persuaded to sit down and eat instead of living over the stove as she normally does for this holiday, and my niece and my godchild bonded virtually over dreidel towers, Zoom filters, and a lot of bouncy physical mirroring that selkie described as "yoga night at the asylum," but it seems to have gone sufficiently well that they both want to do it again. John le Carré died and it is unfair to think of it as the last falling of the Berlin Wall because one of the things that was so important about him as a writer was not just how he changed the rules of the game—his name became its own genre; it is impossible to write about spies without his shadow falling across the edge of the page, looking as often as not like some undistinguished retiree polishing his glasses with the fat end of his tie—but how he went on writing in the world after the Cold War, still engaged, still relevant, still furious about how the unknowable, undeniable realities of words, ideals, people could be sacrificed to the convenience of ideologies or simply self-interest. For someone who identified repeatedly as a liar, he cared visibly about the true things. I looked forward to each new one of his books and now I am afraid I have read the last. My mother was re-reading Smiley's People (1979) last night after my brother's family went home. I am tired of losing necessary voices, even as I know it's not a zero-sum chorus. The lenses of every age should be a kaleidoscope. I just heard that the results of the electoral college are coming in as their states voted they should. Tonight the candle we light is for justice.
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Thank you.
(I hope that makes sense, a lot of screaming in the background)
It did, and that's understandable!
*hugs*
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<3
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*hugs*
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I bet the Norman Lloyd memoir is fascinating.
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Thank you! Me, too.
I bet the Norman Lloyd memoir is fascinating.
I will let you know what
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I'd love to hear what you think of Piranesi. Everything I've heard so far makes me think I'll love it.
The news about Le Carre is upsetting. High time I set about my giant Smiley Versus Karla omnibus.
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(“You have had a seven-year-old in your life, Mama. Seven is delightfully crazy. She would benefit from hockey and those volcano kit explosions.”)
[I cannot calculate the expiatory offering were we to send a baking-soda volcano to your mother’s house. I don’t own that much honey or grain.]
... I am so glad we were sustained to reach this evening, even if mostly by spite.
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It's this one! I bought the last in stock at the time, but the artist must have printed more. It's even nicer in person.
I'd love to hear what you think of Piranesi. Everything I've heard so far makes me think I'll love it.
I think you will love it. I loved it. It is full of time and sea and memory, it draws on most of the aspects I loved best about The Magician's Nephew and feels at least flavored with Peake to me, and I think it would reward reading in proximity to The Course of the Heart. It is also very much its own numinous self. Its puzzle-plot makes it difficult to discuss if people care about spoilers, but I strongly suspect it will stand up to re-reading. It's written beautifully.
The news about Le Carre is upsetting. High time I set about my giant Smiley Versus Karla omnibus.
*hugs*
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Thank you!
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[I cannot calculate the expiatory offering were we to send a baking-soda volcano to your mother’s house. I don’t own that much honey or grain.]
She got a volcano kit from my parents. I apologize to the remains of Thera in advance.
... I am so glad we were sustained to reach this evening, even if mostly by spite.
Who knew spite was so emotionally nourishing?
*hugs*
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Oh my life, that is a thing of beauty!
*feels at least flavored with Peake to me, and I think it would reward reading in proximity to The Course of the Heart. It is also very much its own numinous self.*
SOLD. You could spoiler this to hell for me and it wouldn't matter much Having an erratic memory has some benefits. 'Scuse me while I ferret around on EBay...
*hugs back*
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They were tasty!
(I am not a huge latke person, but I eat my ritual one or two every year and my brother does fry them nicely.)
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I love that your niece and goddaughter had fun together--dreidel towers and physical mirroring sound like a lot of fun <3
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It was incredibly sweet to watch! If they are ever in the same geographical space, there may not be a house standing afterward, but it will be some of the most heartwarming destruction you have ever seen.
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I wanted to get her something dragonish, and it had such personality.
'Scuse me while I ferret around on EBay...
Godspeed!
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It was oddly off my radar until recently and now I am very glad it exists.
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The tectonic equivalent of ferret-legging.
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Nine
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That is the one that matters.
*hugs*
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Hee!