At the
desk, waiting for a sense of urgency to propel me into work. But, that’s
evidently not going to happen in the immediate future. A pest - today I haven’t the energy to motivate
myself any other way. What to do? This it
seems. That is, a ramble; a setting out
on a path of words which has no intended destination and without even an inkling
of where or what (or who) I might pass.
So I
sit reading a novel: Edith Wharton, The House
of Mirth. I can’t put it down
despite its bleak nature. Poor Lily Bart being tossed to the lions in order to ensure
the social standing of another. It reminds me of something I have read recently
– not in the plot, but in its style. Is it
Sarah Waters, The Paying Guests? I think it might be. The through treatment of thinking through the
social dilemma of a character caught in the tangle that appearances and expectations
create when the requirements of social status hobble authenticity. I shall I think, give myself the next couple of
hours in order to learn the outcome.
