I started writing this blog post fifteen minutes before the end of my lunch break at work - after losing the rest of my lunch break washing clothes, clearing the kitchen up, and so on. After writing a few words my work computer sang forth a message notification, and like a fool I looked. The fifteen minutes vanished without trace.
I really am my own worst enemy sometimes. If somebody needs me - for whatever reason - I very rarely say no. Perhaps if I went for a run at lunchtime, it would prevent anybody from calling me, then I couldn’t be coerced into anything. I have taken to walking to the supermarket to buy a sandwich sometimes - not because we need the food - more as an excuse to get off my backside.
Anyway. Enough about all of that.
I’ve been struggling to come up with a Christmas list. All of my daughters have been asking me to come up with something, so I sat down with Amazon earlier and started searching for books. You can’t go wrong with books.
Classics.
I’ve always loved reading classics. I guess a huge part of it is curiosity - to find out why some books are revered, or notorious. I think I’ve mentioned on the blog in the past - that years ago I commuted into London every day, and read more during that couple of years than at any other time in my life. Thats when I became interested in both “the classics”, and the most notorious books - the banned books.
I remember sitting on the train reading “Tropic of Cancer”, and “Lolita”, and thinking myself very daring. I felt sure that somebody would notice the book title, and be suitably horrified. If you’ve never heard of, or read them, Tropic of Cancer charts Henry Miller’s life, living in the red light district of Paris, and Lolita tells the story of a man who becomes besotted with an under-age girl - and spends most of the book agonising over his own guilt.
My main memory of the most notorious books is that they were only notorious in their own time. The world is immeasurably more accepting and free than it once was.
Sometimes cultural differences are apparent too. When the kids were young, I read the Chronicles of Narnia to them - and remember being surprised by the language used in “The Magician’s Nephew” (the movie is in production, in case you are interested). Let’s just say time has not been kind to it - it’s very much the product of it’s era.
I have found myself searching out Hemingway. He’s become something of a weakness in recent years. A Moveable Feast has become one of my favourite books. There’s just something about the way he writes - the way he describes a person, or a scene. It’s so straightforward - and so unlike anything else I’ve ever read.
Oh crikey - look at the time - I had promised to go to bed about half an hour ago.