The Maid of Buttermere, the first of Melvyn Bragg's novels I've read, begins as a fascinating pastoral - part Hardy, part riff on Sublime tourism (with which I'm a little obsessed) but then turns, quite consciously, into a kind of pseudo contemporary reportage. The concluding sections are not nearly as compelling as a result, and ... you know when you get that feeling that you can sense the author at work?
Notes From a Small Island, Bill Bryson's homage to Britain. It's not as hilarious as some of his work but I realised why I like him in spite of his many frustrating habits - he never talks to anyone. He travels all over Britain - well, bits, anyway - without any of that extrovert travel writer pallsy chat in the pub bollocks that makes the writer feel they truly understand a place in which they have just arrived and therefore able to convey its deepest secrets to the rest of us. I hate that. The other option of course is the Theroux misanthropic interaction with fellow travellers in order to describe them in scathing terms in a travel book. So Bryon's rare brushes with unavoidable conversationalists are refreshing, and it's actually quite a relief to travel around in his head and not pretend otherwise.
Sybil's Cave, Catherine Padmore's assured and evocative debut novel, set on the Hawkesbury, Fascist Italy and in post-war London, with all three places expressively and convincingly conveyed with a minimum of fuss and good strong characterisation. I look forward to her next.
Tales From A Broad. I list this only to warn you. It's by Fran Lebowitz. No, not that one, as it turns out. As I found out too late. Dreadful. Didn't even finish it. The kind of writer WHO HAS TO USE CAPITALS TO TELL YOU WHEN TO GET READY FOR SOMETHING FUNNY. How these things get printed is beyond me.
Elvin's Mottoes Revised. What a gem. Hours of endless entertainment. I've decided I need a motto. Who wouldn't, when you could use:
Mone sale (Advise with wit)
Optima revelatio stella (A star is the best revelation)
In utroque paratus (Prepared in either case)
And my favourite - picture the knight trembling behind his visor - Comitae quam viribus (By mildness rather than force)
Or even Bibe si sapis (Drink if you are wise).
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Lately I've been...
Reading:
Susan Sontag's diary, Reborn.
Strangely disappointing, though perhaps just an anti-climax due to over-zealous reviews and sweaty anticipation on my part.
Of course, it's interesting to see her ambition intellectual nature form itself over the years, especially those precocious early years; and a few passages dwell on some questions of moral philosophy she developed further in her writing.
There are peeks inside the personal life of a famously private/famously public person. You can't beat that.
But the private declarations and musing about her sexuality, while familiar, are far from profound: reminiscent of, but not a shade on, Barbara Deming and others.
I suppose one just expects more from someone whose essays make you gasp with recognition or wonder - or more often groan silently with shame that the moral or political arguments she outlines didn't occur to you when they are so blindingly logical.
But that's the point, I suppose, of being the voice of a generation.
I also wonder why some entries (eg the addresses of agents or bookshops) are even published except as a vague marker of activity in the world, when so many notes are obviously omitted. The lists of movies Sontag has seen or books she wants to read speak both of her ferocious appetite for ideas and images and input.
But the most compelling passages are the 1957 'Notes from a childhood', a stream of consciousness mini-memoir; and those in which her forensic self-awareness leads her to dig painful at truths, particularly about her relationships.
It all begs the question why someone so sure of herself and so entrenched in queer life - and so honest about so many of her thoughts - was never open about her sexuality.
Perhaps the publication of more notebooks will explain.
Kate Grenville's The Lieutenant
In this book, Grenville crosses the gulf she created for herself in The Secret River, allowing for - in fact exploring - first contact between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in the early days of settlement.
It's interesting, given the debates around Secret River: or rather, the debates around her statements about that book.
I think Grenville acknowledges the wishful thinking of so many white people, now and then (let's be honest) to be special, to understand Aboriginal life fully, to be free of any shame or guilt from past or present - our own or others'. Of course most of us stuff it up just like everyone else - we remain as complicit as every other whitefella while imagining we would be Rooke/Dawes rather than his trigger-happy First Fleet comrades. It's a fine old Australian literary tradition, Aboriginalism, and frankly I'm not quite sure where Grenville lands - whether she falls under its spell or is exploring the idea.
In both books there is confusion in the response to brutality. In Dawes/Rooke she has a fundamentally good man through which to work these dilemmas. He devotes his life after Sydney Cove to Abolition and slave welfare. Is he an exemplar? Is he too special - too good - to be a model for the rest of us? Do our own moral shortcomings find an escape in such good people?
We can rest assured when good people exist - when Wilberforce or Oxfam are on the case - knowing that somewhere in history - somewhere in the world - someone better than us (me) is actually doing something, responding as we would wish our best selves to do?
But she makes certain of one thing: "This is a novel," she writes in her Author's Note. "It should not be mistaken for history." She has even changed the names of people such as Arthur Phillip, which is perhaps taking things a little too far.
Nobody mistook The Secret River for history, surely: it was Grenville who muddied the waters with her own hand. But we shall let that debate rest, for now. What we can say though is that Grenville is brave enough to wade into that tide (stretching the metaphor about as far as it will go) of historical reflection and contemporary reaction. And good on her for that.
(Also been reading Peter Ackroyd's Fall of Troy and am now onto the Edna Walling biography.)
Watching:
Slumdog Mllionaire
Like everyone else.
The Hours
Yes, I know I'm several years too late but it's one of those films everyone tells you to see, and whenever everybody tells me to do something I won't. So I'd never seen it and I wish I hadn't because now I am retrospectively furious Kidman won the Oscar for that dull performance when Meryl and Julianne Moore had both more screentime and twenty times the impact.
Milk
Cried from the moment he made his first speech. Love a good biopic. Couldn't quite believe I was watching a mainstream one about a gay icon. Harvey would be over the moon. Bless him.
Writing:
My novel about La Maupin.
Susan Sontag's diary, Reborn.
Strangely disappointing, though perhaps just an anti-climax due to over-zealous reviews and sweaty anticipation on my part.
Of course, it's interesting to see her ambition intellectual nature form itself over the years, especially those precocious early years; and a few passages dwell on some questions of moral philosophy she developed further in her writing.
There are peeks inside the personal life of a famously private/famously public person. You can't beat that.
But the private declarations and musing about her sexuality, while familiar, are far from profound: reminiscent of, but not a shade on, Barbara Deming and others.
I suppose one just expects more from someone whose essays make you gasp with recognition or wonder - or more often groan silently with shame that the moral or political arguments she outlines didn't occur to you when they are so blindingly logical.
But that's the point, I suppose, of being the voice of a generation.
I also wonder why some entries (eg the addresses of agents or bookshops) are even published except as a vague marker of activity in the world, when so many notes are obviously omitted. The lists of movies Sontag has seen or books she wants to read speak both of her ferocious appetite for ideas and images and input.
"Nothing prevents me from being a writer except laziness."
But the most compelling passages are the 1957 'Notes from a childhood', a stream of consciousness mini-memoir; and those in which her forensic self-awareness leads her to dig painful at truths, particularly about her relationships.
It all begs the question why someone so sure of herself and so entrenched in queer life - and so honest about so many of her thoughts - was never open about her sexuality.
Perhaps the publication of more notebooks will explain.
Kate Grenville's The Lieutenant
In this book, Grenville crosses the gulf she created for herself in The Secret River, allowing for - in fact exploring - first contact between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in the early days of settlement.
It's interesting, given the debates around Secret River: or rather, the debates around her statements about that book.
I think Grenville acknowledges the wishful thinking of so many white people, now and then (let's be honest) to be special, to understand Aboriginal life fully, to be free of any shame or guilt from past or present - our own or others'. Of course most of us stuff it up just like everyone else - we remain as complicit as every other whitefella while imagining we would be Rooke/Dawes rather than his trigger-happy First Fleet comrades. It's a fine old Australian literary tradition, Aboriginalism, and frankly I'm not quite sure where Grenville lands - whether she falls under its spell or is exploring the idea.
In both books there is confusion in the response to brutality. In Dawes/Rooke she has a fundamentally good man through which to work these dilemmas. He devotes his life after Sydney Cove to Abolition and slave welfare. Is he an exemplar? Is he too special - too good - to be a model for the rest of us? Do our own moral shortcomings find an escape in such good people?
We can rest assured when good people exist - when Wilberforce or Oxfam are on the case - knowing that somewhere in history - somewhere in the world - someone better than us (me) is actually doing something, responding as we would wish our best selves to do?
But she makes certain of one thing: "This is a novel," she writes in her Author's Note. "It should not be mistaken for history." She has even changed the names of people such as Arthur Phillip, which is perhaps taking things a little too far.
Nobody mistook The Secret River for history, surely: it was Grenville who muddied the waters with her own hand. But we shall let that debate rest, for now. What we can say though is that Grenville is brave enough to wade into that tide (stretching the metaphor about as far as it will go) of historical reflection and contemporary reaction. And good on her for that.
(Also been reading Peter Ackroyd's Fall of Troy and am now onto the Edna Walling biography.)
Watching:
Slumdog Mllionaire
Like everyone else.
The Hours
Yes, I know I'm several years too late but it's one of those films everyone tells you to see, and whenever everybody tells me to do something I won't. So I'd never seen it and I wish I hadn't because now I am retrospectively furious Kidman won the Oscar for that dull performance when Meryl and Julianne Moore had both more screentime and twenty times the impact.
Milk
Cried from the moment he made his first speech. Love a good biopic. Couldn't quite believe I was watching a mainstream one about a gay icon. Harvey would be over the moon. Bless him.
Writing:
My novel about La Maupin.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Writers for Wildlife
This weekend I'll be reading/speaking at a benefit for our furry and feathered friends who have survived the bushfires.
Writers for Wildlife
Abbotsford Convent
Sunday, March 22
1.30pm.
Writers for Wildlife
Abbotsford Convent
Sunday, March 22
1.30pm.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Wrack and ruin
The roads are open. Not all of them, of course, as in Kinglake and other towns they are still sifting through the wreckage.
But I drove up to my place in the country on Saturday: the usual way, through Steels Creek and Yarra Glen, up through the Toolangi Forest, past Castella and through Glenburn to Yea and Yarck and my little half-acre which is still as I left it. But the world around it has changed beyond belief, beyond sadness.
I've driven through aftermath before, indeed I've driven through flaming bush. Every day for months I drove through the Royal National Park after the fire - blackened, then a glimmer of green.
But this...
There are parts that look like a normal bushfire has been through - bits of remnant foliage, some ground cover - maybe old trunks - for wildlife, a tree here and there untouched, the forest floor clears but substantial shrubs burned but still there. Horrifying but still a chance of survival for burrowing creatures and sturdy plants.
But there are parts of Toolangi that look like nothing I've ever seen. Bare charred trunks. And that's it.
It's as if there had never been any understorey at all. No skeletal saplings. No cover for anything.
Just trunks and a ghostly rain of grey leaves falling, then carpeting the ground.
Nothing can have survived it.
Whole populations of creatures must have been wiped out, just as whole townships have been reduced to the odd chimney and a tangle of iron.
So it must be a good thing that I'm reading/speaking at a benefit on March 22 at Abbotsford Convent - Writers for Wildlife - to support the recovery.
I'll post details here soon.
But I drove up to my place in the country on Saturday: the usual way, through Steels Creek and Yarra Glen, up through the Toolangi Forest, past Castella and through Glenburn to Yea and Yarck and my little half-acre which is still as I left it. But the world around it has changed beyond belief, beyond sadness.
I've driven through aftermath before, indeed I've driven through flaming bush. Every day for months I drove through the Royal National Park after the fire - blackened, then a glimmer of green.
But this...
There are parts that look like a normal bushfire has been through - bits of remnant foliage, some ground cover - maybe old trunks - for wildlife, a tree here and there untouched, the forest floor clears but substantial shrubs burned but still there. Horrifying but still a chance of survival for burrowing creatures and sturdy plants.
But there are parts of Toolangi that look like nothing I've ever seen. Bare charred trunks. And that's it.
It's as if there had never been any understorey at all. No skeletal saplings. No cover for anything.
Just trunks and a ghostly rain of grey leaves falling, then carpeting the ground.
Nothing can have survived it.
Whole populations of creatures must have been wiped out, just as whole townships have been reduced to the odd chimney and a tangle of iron.
So it must be a good thing that I'm reading/speaking at a benefit on March 22 at Abbotsford Convent - Writers for Wildlife - to support the recovery.
I'll post details here soon.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Breathing
There's a poisonous pink sunrise this morning - the sun's coming up behind the smoke that's spread across the sky from the Yarra Valley, a few miles away.
It's very still.
No wind is a good wind, right?
Usually when there are bushfires you hope for a change in the wind - this time we know that's a profoundly selfish hope, because these fires are so entangled around communities that one person's longed-for wind change is another's deepest dread.
Healesville is back on high alert. Yarck is just in purgatory. Like so many others.
And so it goes on...
It's very still.
No wind is a good wind, right?
Usually when there are bushfires you hope for a change in the wind - this time we know that's a profoundly selfish hope, because these fires are so entangled around communities that one person's longed-for wind change is another's deepest dread.
Healesville is back on high alert. Yarck is just in purgatory. Like so many others.
And so it goes on...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
No words
The hiatus on this blog has been due to the illness and then death of my lovely, talented, loving, fiercely intelligent, gorgeous mother-in-law.
We were in New Zealand with the family for a few weeks and arrived back in Melbourne to a heatwave followed by an inferno.
So far we are safe although I confess my bushfire preparation this year has been half-hearted, and I've been forced to reconsider our fire plan, which is to stay and defend.
Having been through it before, in Bundeena, I felt confident I could save the house if required, but I now know I couldn't have.
Not this fire.
It moved faster and more fiercely than anyone has ever seen, so everything you thought you knew about fires, and houses, and yourself, is cast into doubt.
I don't know what would have happened to us if the wind hadn't changed - as it is, it has pushed the other edge of what is now one enormous fire towards my other place, my spiritual home, in the country near Yarck.
They are on high alert there now, with spot fires in the area.
There's nothing I can do but wait and act like I'm interested in work and the rest of the world while sick to the stomach and exhausted from checking the fire info services in the middle of the night.
And so many others are so - so - much worse off.
We are all affected somehow, everyone is waiting for news of people or places they love, and those who are not affected now will be, I'm sure in the coming days or weeks or months as we learn to live with it all.
But as Julia says, it's beyond words, so I'll shut up.
(Cross-posted on Bush Backyard)
We were in New Zealand with the family for a few weeks and arrived back in Melbourne to a heatwave followed by an inferno.
So far we are safe although I confess my bushfire preparation this year has been half-hearted, and I've been forced to reconsider our fire plan, which is to stay and defend.
Having been through it before, in Bundeena, I felt confident I could save the house if required, but I now know I couldn't have.
Not this fire.
It moved faster and more fiercely than anyone has ever seen, so everything you thought you knew about fires, and houses, and yourself, is cast into doubt.
I don't know what would have happened to us if the wind hadn't changed - as it is, it has pushed the other edge of what is now one enormous fire towards my other place, my spiritual home, in the country near Yarck.
They are on high alert there now, with spot fires in the area.
There's nothing I can do but wait and act like I'm interested in work and the rest of the world while sick to the stomach and exhausted from checking the fire info services in the middle of the night.
And so many others are so - so - much worse off.
We are all affected somehow, everyone is waiting for news of people or places they love, and those who are not affected now will be, I'm sure in the coming days or weeks or months as we learn to live with it all.
But as Julia says, it's beyond words, so I'll shut up.
(Cross-posted on Bush Backyard)
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
On the fifth day of Christmas
... my true love gave to me:
The Idiot and the Odyssey by Joel Stratte-McClure
The Lieutenant by Kate Grenville
The Unusual Life of Edna Walling by Sara Hardy.
One of my lovely colleagues also gave me Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope and, while I remain a little sceptical - he simply can't be that pure of heart, he's a politician - most of me is just as sucked in as Oprah. So I look forward to reading his story.
Nice haul, and it isn't even Christmas yet.
The Idiot and the Odyssey by Joel Stratte-McClure
The Lieutenant by Kate Grenville
The Unusual Life of Edna Walling by Sara Hardy.
One of my lovely colleagues also gave me Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope and, while I remain a little sceptical - he simply can't be that pure of heart, he's a politician - most of me is just as sucked in as Oprah. So I look forward to reading his story.
Nice haul, and it isn't even Christmas yet.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Falling apart
...when I hear of people taking a year off to write, I worry that a year might not be enough. You must fail as a writer for much longer than that, I think, before you know what failure is and what use you might make of it. I didn't realise, when that first book fell apart, that every book falls apart. That this is the gig. You sit there and watch your word-count drop, and you hold your nerve. I have survived this process now many times.
~ Anne Enright being encouraging (I think) in The Guardian
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Oh no!
"Australian poet Dorothy Porter died in Melbourne this morning from complications due to cancer. She was 54.
The writer is best known for The Monkey's Mask, a crime thriller in verse about a lesbian detective that was published in 1994 and won The Age Poetry Book of the Year in the same year."
(The Age)
Best reader of her own work I ever heard - and one of the best poets.
Too dreadful.
The writer is best known for The Monkey's Mask, a crime thriller in verse about a lesbian detective that was published in 1994 and won The Age Poetry Book of the Year in the same year."
(The Age)
Best reader of her own work I ever heard - and one of the best poets.
Too dreadful.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
The forgotten heroes
Note to book publicists, feature writers and documentary makers: just because something happened a while ago, that doesn't make it "forgotten".
In the past couple of months, I've seen that description applied to the Anzacs of World War 2, naval veterans of both World Wars, HMAS Sydney, RAF crews, and in the week of Remembrance Day, not just John Monash but the entire Western Front.
Monash. One of our most famous and revered military minds. I find this astonishing.
Yes, the Howard Government obsessed over Gallipoli on Anzac Day and failed to organise Remembrance Day celebrations in Fromelles (mind you, I doubt John Howard, for all his failings, forgot the Western Front, either).
It’s perfectly reasonable to question both the Gallipoli campaign itself and its glorification. But to claim, as Jonathan King did in The Age last month, "it has taken the Commonwealth 90 years to realise the significance of the Western Front" is stretching the point beyond breaking.
The Western Front was the Great War in everyone’s mind, for its duration and for generations afterwards. It is so utterly seared into our collective memory, the photographs and poems absorbed on an almost visceral level, the diaries and letters amongst the literary canon, even though so many who came back who never discuss it.
But who exactly has forgotten?
Not me. Not anyone I know. Not anyone who has ever read one of the trench poets or seen a Frank Hurley photograph or read a war diary.
I grant you, the First World War campaigns in Serbia, say, are unfamiliar to many and don't feature largely in the collective imagination.
But the Western Front?
What nonsense.
I can't count the number of books on the Western Front sitting on my bookshelf: some may be obscure but many are certified best-sellers. Some of those are written for young readers. Not everyone has a precious copy of CEW Bean but countless people have copies of Carlyon or Adam-Smith – or indeed Sassoon and Graves or even Hemingway. Who do you think reads all these books and watches the movies, documentaries and TV series? Millions of people, of all ages. And they all remember.
A monumental national effort went into commemorating the dead in Europe after both World Wars; both here, in the form of the Shrine and the War memorial in Canberra, but also in the places where the bodies lay. Do you imagine the hundreds of thousands of people who remember our dead or fractured grandfathers and fathers and uncles (and grandmothers and aunts), don’t actually realise they served in the mud of Flanders and France and Italy?
You can’t really think we’re that stupid.
Next it'll be "Weary Dunlop, the forgotten doctor of the Burma railroad".
Or "Tobruk, the forgotten battle that turned the tide of war".
There are myriad ways to remember and commemorate. Turning a cemetery into a tourist hotspot like Gallipoli in April is not the only possible form of acknowledgement. Turning life and precious ritual into a History Channel voiceover is absurd and alienates those who have not forgotten – and will never forget.
In the past couple of months, I've seen that description applied to the Anzacs of World War 2, naval veterans of both World Wars, HMAS Sydney, RAF crews, and in the week of Remembrance Day, not just John Monash but the entire Western Front.
Monash. One of our most famous and revered military minds. I find this astonishing.
Yes, the Howard Government obsessed over Gallipoli on Anzac Day and failed to organise Remembrance Day celebrations in Fromelles (mind you, I doubt John Howard, for all his failings, forgot the Western Front, either).
It’s perfectly reasonable to question both the Gallipoli campaign itself and its glorification. But to claim, as Jonathan King did in The Age last month, "it has taken the Commonwealth 90 years to realise the significance of the Western Front" is stretching the point beyond breaking.
The Western Front was the Great War in everyone’s mind, for its duration and for generations afterwards. It is so utterly seared into our collective memory, the photographs and poems absorbed on an almost visceral level, the diaries and letters amongst the literary canon, even though so many who came back who never discuss it.
But who exactly has forgotten?
Not me. Not anyone I know. Not anyone who has ever read one of the trench poets or seen a Frank Hurley photograph or read a war diary.
I grant you, the First World War campaigns in Serbia, say, are unfamiliar to many and don't feature largely in the collective imagination.
But the Western Front?
What nonsense.
I can't count the number of books on the Western Front sitting on my bookshelf: some may be obscure but many are certified best-sellers. Some of those are written for young readers. Not everyone has a precious copy of CEW Bean but countless people have copies of Carlyon or Adam-Smith – or indeed Sassoon and Graves or even Hemingway. Who do you think reads all these books and watches the movies, documentaries and TV series? Millions of people, of all ages. And they all remember.
A monumental national effort went into commemorating the dead in Europe after both World Wars; both here, in the form of the Shrine and the War memorial in Canberra, but also in the places where the bodies lay. Do you imagine the hundreds of thousands of people who remember our dead or fractured grandfathers and fathers and uncles (and grandmothers and aunts), don’t actually realise they served in the mud of Flanders and France and Italy?
You can’t really think we’re that stupid.
Next it'll be "Weary Dunlop, the forgotten doctor of the Burma railroad".
Or "Tobruk, the forgotten battle that turned the tide of war".
There are myriad ways to remember and commemorate. Turning a cemetery into a tourist hotspot like Gallipoli in April is not the only possible form of acknowledgement. Turning life and precious ritual into a History Channel voiceover is absurd and alienates those who have not forgotten – and will never forget.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Recent reading
My inner life - such as it is - has returned to normal now that the US election is over and I don't have to spend every spare moment worrying about Sarah Palin.
So I've been catching up on some reading:
Lighthousekeeping - Jeanette Winterson has climbed down from her self-conscious now-watch-while-I-do-some-amazing-writing thing and is back in fine form. Perhaps she just has to do that voice. Perhaps she's a one-voice wonder. Who knows? When she gets it right, there's nothing like it.
The Collector of Worlds - The new translation of Ilya Troyanov's novel based on the life of that famously enigmatic explorer, Richard Burton. I hoped, from the first few pages, for insights into Burton but in the last pages was forced yet again to accept enigma as a fact of life. It's compelling, suitably exotic and Orientalist, slightly frustrating and as fabulous as Burton's life demands - and beautifully written.
Olive: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit - Mort Rosenblum. Unlike all those stupid pop history knock-offs (Dust, Flea, and for all I know Belch or Sandpaper) this is utterly fascinating, as indeed you would expect, because the story of the olive is the story of the Mediterranean region and the future of the trees and their precious produce critical to everything from the EU subsidy program to peace in the area around Jerusalem. And I'm a bit olive obsessed at present.
That said, I might now catch up on some writing.
So I've been catching up on some reading:
Lighthousekeeping - Jeanette Winterson has climbed down from her self-conscious now-watch-while-I-do-some-amazing-writing thing and is back in fine form. Perhaps she just has to do that voice. Perhaps she's a one-voice wonder. Who knows? When she gets it right, there's nothing like it.
The Collector of Worlds - The new translation of Ilya Troyanov's novel based on the life of that famously enigmatic explorer, Richard Burton. I hoped, from the first few pages, for insights into Burton but in the last pages was forced yet again to accept enigma as a fact of life. It's compelling, suitably exotic and Orientalist, slightly frustrating and as fabulous as Burton's life demands - and beautifully written.
Olive: The Life and Lore of a Noble Fruit - Mort Rosenblum. Unlike all those stupid pop history knock-offs (Dust, Flea, and for all I know Belch or Sandpaper) this is utterly fascinating, as indeed you would expect, because the story of the olive is the story of the Mediterranean region and the future of the trees and their precious produce critical to everything from the EU subsidy program to peace in the area around Jerusalem. And I'm a bit olive obsessed at present.
That said, I might now catch up on some writing.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Taste test
Read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider.
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.
~ Francis Bacon
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.
~ Francis Bacon
Friday, November 07, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
The morning after
On the other hand, maybe change is incremental - or relative - or selective - or something.
(New York Times)
A giant rainbow-colored flag in the gay-friendly Castro neighborhood of San Francisco was flying at half-staff on Wednesday as social and religious conservatives celebrated the passage of measures that ban same-sex marriage in California, Florida and Arizona.
The across-the-board sweep, coupled with passage of a measure in Arkansas intended to bar gay men and lesbians from adopting children, was a stunning victory for religious conservatives.
(New York Times)
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