During the last couple of weeks I found myself either drowning in the works of James Joyce or making long excursions into the history of London sewers. (The godfather of interior monologue
being the most natural choice for my impending English literature exam , I have been a major Joyce fan even years before I saw him in his his Ewan McGregor incarnation *g*. My sudden interest in sewers, cesspits and the achievements of Victorian engineer Joseph Balzagette mostly derives from the need for yet another history term paper; however it's a quite fascinating subject. For anyone curious about the sanitory problems of a true metropolis, a good online summary can be found here
The increased academic activity seems to have had a rather peculiar effect on my brain. On the one hand it left me with a strangely insatiable hunger for words. Apart from study related books, I re-read one of my favourite historical novels (selenak
will know which one *g*), Stephen King's Bag of Bones
, which instantly made it into the Top Five of my favourite King books (yeah, call me heretical, but a) I love King and b)always find myself able to enjoy his newer works as much as the old) and am currently on page 57 of Iain Pears' An Instance of the Fingerpost
. All these books have well over 700 pages.
On the downside of all this reading I have neglected online correspondence and LJ to a point which makes me feel like fandom's most uncommunicative, unfaithful daughter.
Will the prodigal be able to redeem herself? Well, I hope so.
Browsing my friendslist, I could not fail to notice enednoviel
's amazing portrait of a slightly older Harry Potter
's musings about the importance of opening paragraphs
's entry concerning the different interpretations of well-loved characters
Also, there is this wonderful little poem cavendish
had written for me shortly after Selena had kindly outed me as secret lover of the Wizarding World's most hated bureaucrat in her comment on my previous entry *g*Lament for Lost Lovers
When 20 (roughly speaking)
you loved the
athletic type -
big sword, immortal
in appearance. you loved
Somewhat older, came
into your vision: a man
his face was hidden, more
the spiritual type, a sword
of light, and not of steel.
His chastity, his sad looks:
were they to be admired
or to be broken?
In fiction only.
And now, with almost thirty, a
bureaucrat it is, grey hair, great power,
wealth and: a dark secret:
Will the lonely man on his deserted planet
grieve? Will the age old Horseman (?)
come storming to your rescue? Would you
desire him to come?
Or can you love
the three of them
together, as observer or
what the story would be like.
What time? And how would
it take place?
And if it came to contest, who would
- strictly fictionally spoken -
win? Sword or Money?
Mind or voice? Spiritual or
worldly greed? An alliance, maybe,
formed by two that would
remain, with you, and one
Will an apologize be made by those
At least ‘tis I who must
apologize for letting my
imagination go astray: in fiction that in
reality should stay. And stay there only.
The observations made in this poem are about as witty as they are true, I guess. cavendish
has witnessed and endured my fannish passions since the mid nineties ;-)