Wrote a scholar from the island that they kept from me
Having access this evening to a tableful of newspapers, I saw the front-page article in the Globe about the climatically imminent flooding of the Seaport and it was pretty much exactly like reading that water is wet. I still have difficulty regarding that neighborhood as a real part of Boston, not merely because of its glass-shelled gentrification but because it is even more obviously on loan from the sea than the rest of this flat gravel-fill town. As soon as there was sea-rise in the future, Boston was going to be under it, long before the governments and corporations of this world blew through the 1.5C deadline. I love the harborwalk and I have seen the harbor walking over it. Urban renewal was faster cash in the moment than streets that would not flood the next minute. I do not believe in the stupidest timeline because I was exposed too early to the folktale in which it could always be worse, but it is nonsensical and nightmarish to me that this is the one we are all trapped in. It is because the universe is an unjust place that so many in power are not found in the morning blue-lipped, salt-lunged, sea-strangled on land.
On the other hand, tonight I watched Hestia trot over to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch's new computer on which was still stuck the silver-paper bow of its early holiday present and pluck it in passing, after which she hunted it up and down the front hall with much batting and biting and singing the high, clear song to her prey which is usually reserved for socks. Decades after bouncing off all the George Eliot I tried after Silas Marner (1861), I seem to be embedded in Middlemarch (1872). It washed out my plans for the day which I then did little with, but I slept a generally assessed normal number of hours.
On the other hand, tonight I watched Hestia trot over to
spatch's new computer on which was still stuck the silver-paper bow of its early holiday present and pluck it in passing, after which she hunted it up and down the front hall with much batting and biting and singing the high, clear song to her prey which is usually reserved for socks. Decades after bouncing off all the George Eliot I tried after Silas Marner (1861), I seem to be embedded in Middlemarch (1872). It washed out my plans for the day which I then did little with, but I slept a generally assessed normal number of hours.
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Thank you! My plans to visit a library did not survive contact with the necessary number of errands in the day, but I am indeed continuing to enjoy its brick-thick public domain scroll. I suspect that when next I can get to a used book store, I will just look for a copy.
There's also a (1993?) BBC adaptation that's supposed to be very good, and which I've always meant to check out, but I didn't read the book until after it was on TV.
I saw that! The cast is fantastic, including early breakout Rufus Sewell, and it looks to have been right at the cusp of the costume drama boom of the '90's. The previous television version was done in 1968, also has a fantastic cast, and is of course in some weird situation where part of it was burninated and the surviving episodes seem surprisingly unavailable.
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Yes, it was the one that started it all off!
The previous television version was done in 1968, also has a fantastic cast, and is of course in some weird situation where part of it was burninated and the surviving episodes seem surprisingly unavailable.
Sounds about right, sadly!
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Nice!
Sounds about right, sadly!
. . . Bernard Hepton as one of my favorite characters from the novel, Clive Francis as another, romantic hero a baby Michael Pennington . . .
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That does sound rather unfair to have, and then burninate! I suppose at least they have most of it, which is better than none or very little, because you never know. <3