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Yesterday was a bit of a trudge, not settling to write, but today, despite an expotition to Paddock Wood and the other Tunbridge Wells, has been more productive of reading. Tomorrow I shall tackle Shikasta.
I awoke this morning to birdsong and a crunching noise; the crunching outlasted the birdsong briefly. A sparrow sang as it went, leg by leg. The trip to Paddock Wood was to see a crucifixion exhibition, the centrepiece of what was designs by Marc Chagall for stained glass windows in Tudeley church. There was another Chagall, a recent discovery, a Gilbert Spencer, a Graham Sutherland or two, a Lee Miller, comic books. Interesting. Then I walked back towards the station and caught a bus to Tunbridge Wells where I was made angry by being diddled out of change and had a sneaky pint of Harvey's Sussex Best. I'd not done this end of Tunbridge Wells before - oddly at the Pantiles, I'd had the sense I was missing something, in fact I thought finding the Pantiles was the rest of Tunbridge Wells, but I hadn't gone uphill from the station before. Despite the coffee shops, I think I prefer my TW. But I found a Julian Graves and bought dried fruit and a Rooks and bought some pork, which even now is slow roasting and smells delicious.
LXXIV: William S. Burroughs, Port of Saints (1973)
Cut up and shuffled too far - an alien terrorist invasion, an author reflects, a sailor visits the embassy, boys have sex and masturbate. The trilogy he began with Cities of Red Night is better - he's clearing the decks. Not for the faint hearted, but oddly poetic.
LXXV: Doris Lessing, Briefing for a Descent into Hell (1971)
Two doctors investigate an academic who is suffering from amnesia, and try to cure him. Although the lives he imagines may be the real ones. Very odd.
LXXVI: Barry Malzberg, The Destruction of the Temple (1973)
The Director tries to recreate the assassination of JFK in an abandoned New York. A little Ballardian, a lot absurd, and mourning lost opportunities. I like Malzberg's stuff.
I awoke this morning to birdsong and a crunching noise; the crunching outlasted the birdsong briefly. A sparrow sang as it went, leg by leg. The trip to Paddock Wood was to see a crucifixion exhibition, the centrepiece of what was designs by Marc Chagall for stained glass windows in Tudeley church. There was another Chagall, a recent discovery, a Gilbert Spencer, a Graham Sutherland or two, a Lee Miller, comic books. Interesting. Then I walked back towards the station and caught a bus to Tunbridge Wells where I was made angry by being diddled out of change and had a sneaky pint of Harvey's Sussex Best. I'd not done this end of Tunbridge Wells before - oddly at the Pantiles, I'd had the sense I was missing something, in fact I thought finding the Pantiles was the rest of Tunbridge Wells, but I hadn't gone uphill from the station before. Despite the coffee shops, I think I prefer my TW. But I found a Julian Graves and bought dried fruit and a Rooks and bought some pork, which even now is slow roasting and smells delicious.
LXXIV: William S. Burroughs, Port of Saints (1973)
Cut up and shuffled too far - an alien terrorist invasion, an author reflects, a sailor visits the embassy, boys have sex and masturbate. The trilogy he began with Cities of Red Night is better - he's clearing the decks. Not for the faint hearted, but oddly poetic.
LXXV: Doris Lessing, Briefing for a Descent into Hell (1971)
Two doctors investigate an academic who is suffering from amnesia, and try to cure him. Although the lives he imagines may be the real ones. Very odd.
LXXVI: Barry Malzberg, The Destruction of the Temple (1973)
The Director tries to recreate the assassination of JFK in an abandoned New York. A little Ballardian, a lot absurd, and mourning lost opportunities. I like Malzberg's stuff.
