May 25th, 2016

discworld angels from most-suspicious

Man delights not me, nor woman neither

Warm evening and the enervating smell of lilacs. Yes, this is what May should be like but hasn't been for a long time. (1962, she mutters, with its extended heatwave at the end of May. My weather memory is long indeed.) (Have I ever had lilacs for the Glorious 25th? I think not.)

Warmth and lilacs and revived allergies are all enervating, you understand, so my reading fails to enthrall me. It's all 'eat your vegetables' with no idea what dessert might involve.

Last finished?
The Courtier, alas.

Now reading?
Still beavering through Shadow of Night, which is a mirror image of last January's biography of Dr. Dee. Dee has appeared; our protagonists are now off to Prague on his traces. Ho-hum.

Because this was too deadly, started A Dead Man in Deptford. Might like it better if the weather were cooler. As it is, can't keep any of the names straight.

Because fiction was letting me down, started John Dover Wilson's Life in Shakespeare's England, a book written before my parents were born. It's actually their copy I have, inherited from the family house almost thirty years ago. I hadn't realized that it wasn't a history, but a compilation of writings of the time. This has great benefit as being all primary sources, just with modernized English, and great drawbacks in that dear god in heaven the Elizabethans were a wordy lot, and uninspired with it.

But confirms that no one in Shadow of Night speaks anything like an Elizabethan.

And next?
I might forget my reading challenge during the summer and play library bingo instead: make a bunch of my holds active and see what turns up. (I read about a book in someone's blog, put a hold on it at the library, make the hold inactive until such time as I have leisure, and then forget why I did so.) Or I might last-ditch the Shakespeare thing and re-re-read Armor of Light.