Friday, July 22nd, 2016

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(Apparently that's supposed to be the sound hoses watering the lawns that don't grow naturally in Los Angeles. I thought it was summer insects. The cicadas have already begun here.)

1. Even though I've read several of Henry James' novels, I'd have to go back and reread, or read anew, to find out if this is satire or an injoke or a reasonable interpretation. And I still wouldn't, probably, because I had no idea what was going on in The Wings of the Dove when I first read it and wouldn't have now. A friend once casually said 'and then when Kate sleeps with Densher' and I was 'She does? Where? How can you tell"! So I doubt I'd recognize a gay man, even a dramatic one, if James presented him to me.

What amazes me is that *anyone* can tell what's happening in a James novel.

2. So, dry warm weekend, what shall I read? The plow stuff- Cellini, Murakami's Kafka, or a committed dive into Terra Nostra? Or The Dalemeark books from Spellcoats on so I can finally read The Crown of Dalemark? And get them all off the shelves because I never cared for that cycle at all. Or The Book of Life, so I can get *them* off the shelves before the end of the month.
Cut for RICHES beyond belief )

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