I remember brighter days when all this was a mystery
In the last three or four days, to judge from the pile beside my bed, I have read Mary Renault's The Charioteer and The Friendly Young Ladies, Lawrence Durrell's Justine and Balthazar, Robert Graves' Goodbye To All That, David Mura's Angels for the Burning, and Aischylos' Oresteia (in Greek).
I cannot possibly predict what effect this combination will have on my writing, but I hope to God I like it.
I cannot possibly predict what effect this combination will have on my writing, but I hope to God I like it.

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Unable to sleep tonight, I read Angela Carter. I am dealing with an intense and hopefully soon to pass envy of her earlier novels, The Magic Toyshop and Honeybuzzard in particular. It's the tactile crowding of objects and setting along with characters who possess a three-dimensionality unassociated with the usual definition; people in her world have weight, their surroundings are cinematically realized down to rust cracks in the sink and thumbprints in the soap. It's the mundane written in such detail that it becomes fantastical. I don't know, I think, how to do that. I wish I did. Nor do I know how to practice it. I should either develop this skill promptly or get over this longing or both.
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It's the mundane written in such detail that it becomes fantastical.
Yes. It's worldbuilt. A.S. Byatt does that, in her different way.
Nine
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