Summer time and some more literature...
"The music from the park just reached him. Oleg heard it- not the actual tune they were playing, but as if it were Tchaikovsky's Fourth Symphony, its restless strained beginning ringing inside of him, one incomparable melody (Oleg interpreted it in his own way, although perhaps it ought to be understood differently) in which the hero is returning to life or perhaps regaining his vision after being blind. He gropes with his fingers, as it were, slides his hand over things or over a face that is dear to him, touching them, still afraid to believe his good fortune: that these things really exist, that his eyes are beginning to see."
- A Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward" (Penguin Classics, 1971), p167-168
I've struggled to read more literature after Proust. His prose style is captivating and highly distinctive, and the subject matter is very abstract. Though this is much the case with a lot of literature, it is difficult to be removed from intensive close reading that I found myself absorbed in. The past few weeks have been dissipated with idleness and satisfaction in music and relaxation. I tend to relax easily beneath the sunlight; the steadily increasing sounds of nature are a comfort and a careless distraction.
Solzhenitsyn is always tough to get through and I remain two-thirds of the way through The Gulag Archipelago, and within good reason; like reading about the holocaust it is painful for those who empathise to extremes. What the world would be like without those qualities, it would be unpleasant to know. Since it's a huge part of my fourth year dissertation, it is good to be reading Russian literature at least some of the time. I intend to spend early April finishing these two novels, however, and afterwards spend some time reading American literature.
American literature in the heat of summer is incomparable. I've read Mark Twain and Herman Melville whilst sitting beneath rays of sunshine, drinking a cup of coffee and watching smoke rear up from the end of a cigarette. Take off your shoes, lean heavily against a pillow you've brought outside, lay slumped on a patch of heated lawn and reading is an enormous pleasure.
One more thing before I stop writing for another sort time. If the reader hasn't already done so, listening to Simon Joyner and Leonard Cohen is a wonderful, affirming experience. The former is less renowned but is equally as prolific as the latter. All these musicians who aren't renowned enough; how does the world explain itself? I suppose it's difficult to explain sometimes the rapture in subtlty of expression and musicianship. I spent many years listening to John Darnielle's Mountain Goats and delving into his variously influenced previous releases. It's much like looking up at some overhanging greenery when beneath and in the hidden places some vibrant flower is found and offers a whole new perspective and enjoyment.
- A Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward" (Penguin Classics, 1971), p167-168
I've struggled to read more literature after Proust. His prose style is captivating and highly distinctive, and the subject matter is very abstract. Though this is much the case with a lot of literature, it is difficult to be removed from intensive close reading that I found myself absorbed in. The past few weeks have been dissipated with idleness and satisfaction in music and relaxation. I tend to relax easily beneath the sunlight; the steadily increasing sounds of nature are a comfort and a careless distraction.
Solzhenitsyn is always tough to get through and I remain two-thirds of the way through The Gulag Archipelago, and within good reason; like reading about the holocaust it is painful for those who empathise to extremes. What the world would be like without those qualities, it would be unpleasant to know. Since it's a huge part of my fourth year dissertation, it is good to be reading Russian literature at least some of the time. I intend to spend early April finishing these two novels, however, and afterwards spend some time reading American literature.
American literature in the heat of summer is incomparable. I've read Mark Twain and Herman Melville whilst sitting beneath rays of sunshine, drinking a cup of coffee and watching smoke rear up from the end of a cigarette. Take off your shoes, lean heavily against a pillow you've brought outside, lay slumped on a patch of heated lawn and reading is an enormous pleasure.
One more thing before I stop writing for another sort time. If the reader hasn't already done so, listening to Simon Joyner and Leonard Cohen is a wonderful, affirming experience. The former is less renowned but is equally as prolific as the latter. All these musicians who aren't renowned enough; how does the world explain itself? I suppose it's difficult to explain sometimes the rapture in subtlty of expression and musicianship. I spent many years listening to John Darnielle's Mountain Goats and delving into his variously influenced previous releases. It's much like looking up at some overhanging greenery when beneath and in the hidden places some vibrant flower is found and offers a whole new perspective and enjoyment.
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