Nov. 9th, 2005

I think I probably ought to go out somewhere today, even if it is cold out there. Since one day spent almost exclusively in the flat tends to leave me feeling rather scrambled, two might leave me completely atomised...
Even after confirming it on the BBC website, I am still having great difficulty believing that Lady Dedlock in "Bleak House" is being played by the same Gillian Anderson whose scepticism as Agent Scully tickled the grey matter (and probably the odd bit of pink matter) of a million teenage boys.

I really should be in cambridge tonight. However, having noticed the way in which, as soon as night fell, the temperature went from "slightly chilly" to "bloody freezing", and after a day tramping around Norfolk (made it to the seaside, which wasn't exactly tropical, but was pleasant enough), I have made an executive decision that it isn't going to happen.

I will get organised eventually - honest...
I appear to be acquiring new upstairs neighbours, judging by the amount of to'ing and fro'ing.

Hmmm... fingers crossed.
Followng a recommendation some time back by [livejournal.com profile] the_alchemist, I have just read The Three Incestuous Sisters" by Audrey Niffenegger.

It is a very, very curious book, but in its own way quite brilliant. As she herself says, it's meant to be a novel told in pictures - the text exists purely to filter out erroneous readings, and is pared to the bone until it resembles one of those Japanese fables where absolutely every word counts.

The pictures, meanwhile, are simple but very effective - "shapely in their nakedness", to steal a phrase from Tolkien. The most obvious influence is Edward Gorey, which is perhaps inevitable in aquatint, but they also share a lot with David Hockney's line illustrations for (I think) Grimm's Fairy Tales. They are at their best when at their simplest - the sketching of expression, reinforced where necessary by a few words of text, is very effective.

One picture is supremely effective - about a third of the way through the book is a picture decribed only as "In Bettine's bedroom", which is the most gorgeous representation of all that love-making is meant to be.

The one thing the book lacks is plot. It is so pared back in its story development that it makes Magnus Mills look like Charles Dickens.

I wouldn't say the book is necessarily worth lashing out 17 quid on - my copy came courtesy of the awesomely good central library in Norwich - but it is certainly worth having a look at if you get chance.
While watching "Rome" (yes, complete tosh, I know, but entertaining tosh)m I was most pleased to see an appearance by someone I had acted with at University.

Particularly pleased because this guy, who had been as rampant a shagger as the theatre society had seen in many a year (and Italian, to boot), turned up in this epsiode only once, to be interrupted such as he was about to lay some sweet lovin' on a key female character. Presumably he'll get his way eventually - Rome is probably the only show with more sex and violence than Wildlife on One - but for the time being, I will savour the moment.

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