On the weekend we went to Hay on Wye where I practically bankrupted myself buying books. I've been reading The Dragon Book, which is a book of short stories about - you guessed it - dragons. I've been diligently making a note of the writers I'm enjoying as I go and consequently I had a nice little list of things I wanted to look for in the town of books.
I managed to get pretty much everything on my list, as well as things not on the list, like a very old and beautiful hardback edition of "Middlemarch" which I bought mainly because it was only £2.00. I haven't read Middlemarch before. When I get round to it I'll let you know how I get on.
Meanwhile I bought three books by Jonathan Stroud, two books by Robin McKinley and a book of poetry by E.E. Cummings. I am rediscovering a bit of a love for poetry. I used to write it all the time, and then I just sort of stopped. I have a reasonably big back catalogue of poems that I still think are pretty good, but at some point I hope to re-steer my head in that direction and start dribbling out a few new ones. Very cathartic, poetry. And scary too. It's the most naked you'll ever be on a page, I think.
Meanwhile Dan very kindly read my mini opera the night I needed to submit it, and struggled with it a bit. I kept trying to explain it, but in the end I should have referred to Mr. Cummings. He said this, and it applies:
Relax and give the play a chance to strut its stuff—relax, stop wondering what it is all 'about'—like many strange and familiar things, Life included, this play isn't 'about,' it simply is. . . . Don't try to enjoy it, let it try to enjoy you. DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU.
Although I wouldn't have shouted the last bit at Dan. I'm not sure that would have been entirely necessary.
I managed to get pretty much everything on my list, as well as things not on the list, like a very old and beautiful hardback edition of "Middlemarch" which I bought mainly because it was only £2.00. I haven't read Middlemarch before. When I get round to it I'll let you know how I get on.
Meanwhile I bought three books by Jonathan Stroud, two books by Robin McKinley and a book of poetry by E.E. Cummings. I am rediscovering a bit of a love for poetry. I used to write it all the time, and then I just sort of stopped. I have a reasonably big back catalogue of poems that I still think are pretty good, but at some point I hope to re-steer my head in that direction and start dribbling out a few new ones. Very cathartic, poetry. And scary too. It's the most naked you'll ever be on a page, I think.
Meanwhile Dan very kindly read my mini opera the night I needed to submit it, and struggled with it a bit. I kept trying to explain it, but in the end I should have referred to Mr. Cummings. He said this, and it applies:
Relax and give the play a chance to strut its stuff—relax, stop wondering what it is all 'about'—like many strange and familiar things, Life included, this play isn't 'about,' it simply is. . . . Don't try to enjoy it, let it try to enjoy you. DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU.
Although I wouldn't have shouted the last bit at Dan. I'm not sure that would have been entirely necessary.
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