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Vincennes, Big Big Cheer for English Passengers! What a joy to read. The sarcasm and acute satire directed at the stuffy, pompous, prematurely Blairesque English Passengers and the creditable evocation of Tasmanian aboriginal culture. I could have wept but then I'm a sentimental old sod.
Currently enjoying Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty but not feeling the frisson others apparently have, despite being a contemporary and having lived through the epoch he's deconstructing. Maybe I'll be moved by the time I get to the end.
Been reading lots of Sci Fi, as ever, and have been gorging on lots more Stephen Baxter. The new Time's Eye, heralding a trilogy in partnership with Arthur C Clarke, is fun but his "Watership Down with Mammoths" (the very last live Mammoths, sob) Silverhair I enjoyed immensely.
Up in the home country with family for a few days, I sought solace in Michael Winner's juicy autobiography (Calm down, Dear, it's only a lot of showbiz gossip and psychological scab picking by a serial philanderer and journeyman director-producer) and found pleasures sufficient unto the day therein. But then I've always had a soft spot for the old fucker.
Something, probably duty to the memory of Frank Herbert, kept me going through the lastest Dune prequel: The Battle of Corrin which was a bit of a plod, even for a twenty-year afficionado such as me, and yet I'm still looking forward to the upcoming sequel to the Dune sextet, the seventh book where the Universe ends and Shiva dances. C'mon Shai Hulud, wreak your revenge and substitute crack cocaine for melange. The Revered Matres are a right royal pain in the ass. And there's sand in the Fremen's thongs. |
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