January 23rd, 2021

hasui moon at magome

(no subject)

The usual annoyances of this book list, including the 'not if you ripped my fingernails out' entries (The Road, Atlas Shrugged, Twilight) and the 'why that one fer cryin' out loud' (The Colour of Magic is one of Pratchett's weakest, The Golden Bowl is James at his most obscure, and The Odyssey is five times better than the Idiocy sorry pardon the Iliad.) But I'm bemused by the fact that my reasonably respectable score owes much to my quarantined reading and rereading of the last year (Didion, Wilkie Collins, Sterne.) I still haven't read the two Dickens warhorses that are always listed, David Copperfield and A Tale of Two Cities, and I doubt I ever shall.

Especially since I've been loose-ending these past few days, sleeping till 11 and wasting time online. Actually I do keep up my with bread and butter reading- ten pages a day of Montaigne, one Kipling in the evening, more of the tiny close-printed and stomach turning Pursuit of the Millennium (we're now at the Crusades and its attendant pogroms.) But bicycling and kanji are utterly neglected, and I must start them again because they're cumulative. At least I managed to vacuum the side bedroom today and sort a bag of laundry. Maybe I'll even wash the kitchen floor sometime. (It's not depression. It's that I * hurt* all the time, and feel it unfair to have to do housework when I hurt. I want to stay in my not-exactly-a-kotatsu (stretched out on the sideroom futon with a pillow on my lap and two of G's quilts covering my legs and the pillow) and read in the painfree warmth of same. Which is fine until I move, and then...