An Artist of the Floating World is an incredible downer. That I never noticed what was going on in the plot when I first read it, thirty years ago, must be due to my single-minded fascination with how Ishiguro rendered Japanese speech in English. Except that I knew no Japanese at all thirty years ago.
Wandered into a Christmas Craft Fair yesterday, and wandered out with new crocheted pot holders to replace the ones K-chan sent me from Japan a dozen years ago, that finally succumbed to the pilot light gas-grunge of my stove. Also home-made rose potpourri from someone's garden, which proved, alas, to have something distinctly ungardenly chemical in it. Had to toss it. Also a notebook covered in black washi with dragons on it. Alas again, writing longhand in notebooks is a lost art with me.
Debated buying a covered butter dish from The Local Potter. Doing so would mean having spreadable butter available at all times which would ensure eating more bread and jam and pb than I already do. Last week's intestinal revolt has rendered me uninterested in food, still, with the exception of bread and butter. I've lost four pounds nonetheless and I'm loathe to undo that, especially at Christmas and especially when I suspect that certain of my meds are either putting weight on me or slowing my metabolism to a crawl.
The Age of Exuberance has an absolutely head-spinning rundown of English noble titles, the rules and usages thereof. I'm amazed that *anyone* can get them right in historical fiction. Or not without drawing up a chart with examples.
I must have at least five books on the go currently, all pleasant enough and none demanding to be read. I need to finish at least two of them or risk creeping futility disorder.