Milne (yes, A. A.), The Red House Mystery
-- these mysteries that I'm assured are Best In Show and classics are well enough and a pleasant change from my other reading, but not knock-socks-off
Everything else. Cohn is still with the messianic movements in Germany, Montaigne is still Montaigne, and Kipling.... I would have finished him by now but his autobiographical sketch, Something of Myself, made me me want to go play Addiction Solitaire and read Facebook instead. Between 'my good friend the far-sighted Cecil Rhodes', the what-about-ism of 'people criticize England for exploiting India but what about the 16 year old drudges they pay a pittance to fetch their bathwater up three flights of stairs, what about them, huh?' and the classic 'The Irish are born haters, they hate everyone, that's the only reason they hate us, obviously', I conclude that I wouldn't want to make Kipling's acquaintance. Add to that his utterly opaque descriptions of various things like the Boer War, where you clearly have to know what he's saying to know what he's saying, and if the elisions and obscurity mean nothing to you, well clearly you're not one of the elect. Pity. I used to think well of him.
More of same. And there is no health within us.