Back to proper fiction courtesy of that strange book shop in Trafalgar street where nearly all the books are pile in length ways, so that you can't see the spine or any of the titles without taking a shelf height pile of a dozen books out. Wildlife feels like the first version of Canada - 16 year old protagonist trying to make sense of his parents life, before he begins to try and make sense of his own. The writings so good though, effortless and flowing. I'm wondering if, like the artists who trained with the old masters, I should just take this book and rewrite it as my own, copy the style like brushstrokes, trying to get inside the structure and the form.
The New Yorker always - always what? - delivers the goods? provides something surprising. I feel like just making another bullet pointed list of the weird and wacky stuff it contains, but that would be a little repetitive. But a street rapper turned bespoke rich clothing retailer, turning out made to order gear for crack dealers, boxers and rappers.? Strange story. Rags to riches stuff of course(Americans love that shit). Then this alarming article about that rich bitch mining magnate in Australia, suing her father, suiting her children, obsessed with her money. Even more unsavory than Murdoch.
What else? Saw two films - The Spirit of 45 at Komedia, The Hunger Games on Netflix at home. '45 was a restrained polemic, it just let the poverty and anger and distress of what had happened before the war speak for itself, matter-of-factly and quietly. Then the nationalisation of everything and the creating of the NHS.. And then from Thatcher onwards the gradual dismantling of everything except the NHS.
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