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It's slightly forties and a little bit New Wave
So I had a birthday. It wound up mostly spent in a bookstore, but this was not necessarily a bad thing.1 My parents took me to dinner at Garlic 'n Lemons in Allston, which may serve the best kebabs I can remember; Howl (2010) is not the best film I've ever been shown for my birthday, but I quite liked it and recommend it even if you're uninterested in the Beat Generation. Someday I will see David Strathairn in a non-historical role. I am now in possession of some seriously neat art, including the massive box set of Flanders & Swann and a 1966 Soviet film of Shostakovich's Katerina Ismailova née Lady Macbeth of the Mtensk District. Tomorrow Eric and I will do something celebratory, although it would be nice if I were capable of sleep first. I can't decide if I'll forfeit my irony privileges if we watch the Norwegian original of Insomnia (1997).
One of the side effects of growing up with books is the tendency to measure one's age by the progress of fictional characters. (By a similar token, I have made myself feel better about my height over the years by remembering that Peter Wimsey is five foot nine.) When I was eleven, I was old enough for a mission year in the Dales of Jane Yolen's Sister Light, Sister Dark; I could have had a true lover at sixteen if I were Jane in Tanith Lee's The Silver Metal Lover or Alexias in Mary Renault's The Last of the Wine; at twenty-three, I was Merlin's age when Arthur was conceived in Mary Stewart's The Crystal Cave. Now I'm twenty-nine, I think of Camille Desmoulins at the opening of Tanith Lee's The Gods Must Be Thirsty. On the other hand, he's a historical figure and I would prefer not to be guillotined a month after my thirty-fourth birthday, so maybe I need a different benchmark.
It was not a terrible day.
1. I found a trade paperback of Penelope Lively's Consequences (2007) to replace the library-sale hardcover I've had to abandon for mold. As of when I stopped to write this post, I am halfway through Rikki Ducornet's The Jade Cabinet (1993), the last of her quartet on language and the elements—the others being The Stain (1984) and The Fountains of Neptune (1989), which I have read, and Entering Fire (1986), which I have not yet—it reminds me a little of Angela Carter, because her voluptuous ragbag style traditionally does, but also of Peter Greenaway and The Piano, which should probably tell the relevant people on my friendlist whether they should pick it up or not. Lewis Carroll is a secondary character.
One of the side effects of growing up with books is the tendency to measure one's age by the progress of fictional characters. (By a similar token, I have made myself feel better about my height over the years by remembering that Peter Wimsey is five foot nine.) When I was eleven, I was old enough for a mission year in the Dales of Jane Yolen's Sister Light, Sister Dark; I could have had a true lover at sixteen if I were Jane in Tanith Lee's The Silver Metal Lover or Alexias in Mary Renault's The Last of the Wine; at twenty-three, I was Merlin's age when Arthur was conceived in Mary Stewart's The Crystal Cave. Now I'm twenty-nine, I think of Camille Desmoulins at the opening of Tanith Lee's The Gods Must Be Thirsty. On the other hand, he's a historical figure and I would prefer not to be guillotined a month after my thirty-fourth birthday, so maybe I need a different benchmark.
It was not a terrible day.
1. I found a trade paperback of Penelope Lively's Consequences (2007) to replace the library-sale hardcover I've had to abandon for mold. As of when I stopped to write this post, I am halfway through Rikki Ducornet's The Jade Cabinet (1993), the last of her quartet on language and the elements—the others being The Stain (1984) and The Fountains of Neptune (1989), which I have read, and Entering Fire (1986), which I have not yet—it reminds me a little of Angela Carter, because her voluptuous ragbag style traditionally does, but also of Peter Greenaway and The Piano, which should probably tell the relevant people on my friendlist whether they should pick it up or not. Lewis Carroll is a secondary character.
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I'm trying to figure out the Wimsey connection, and why that height might be comforting, aeeing as it's neither particularly tall nor particularly short. Are you also 5'9"?
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David Strathairn
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I would also prefer that you not get guillotined a month after your thirty-fourth birthday, so finding a different bench mark is probably a good idea.
On the other hand, if you keep this one, you can feel smug about doing better than he was when you don't lose your head.
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(For some reason I thought it was... Oh... No, I was right about which day was your birthday, just not about which day yesterday was).
I can't decide if I'll forfeit my irony privileges if we watch the Norwegian original of Insomnia (1997).
Anything Norwegian can only increase your irony. It's the secret to lutefisk preservation.
I would prefer not to be guillotined a month after my thirty-fourth birthday, so maybe I need a different benchmark.
I would prefer you not be guillotined, either. Changing benchmarks might be wise. Might be wise for me, as well, since in 6 days or so, my benchmark suggests that I will get very lost in the woods this year and then go to hell.
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Also, yay for another person who likes Penelope Lively! (I've read Moon Tiger and The Photograph and loved them both)
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You shouldn't feel badly about your height at all. I'm five foot six. That said, I can relate a lot to the notion of measuring one's age, as well as one's body, by fictional characters.
I hope you can find some sleep soon. I don't think you'll forfeit your irony privileges, because none of us will tell on you.
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and since I am more than half-Norwegian, here is a quick translation for your watching of Norwegian movies:
Ja, ja, skdor, skdor, jeg snakker ikke norsk og jeg spise gjetost!
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It might interest you that you always come off in my mind's eye as tall, even in short-term memory.
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A few hours ago I saw a one-night only encore showing of Ted Hughes's version of Racine's Phèdre as performed a year ago at London's National Theatre, with Helen Mirren in the title role. Jaw-droppingly awesome performances all around, with only the actor playing Theseus slightly off. Mirren is a world treasure. I can hardly wait for The Tempest.
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