The magnolias have bloomed across Montreal. Today snow filled the blooms. I made banana bread and read Brideshead Revisited, as I couldn’t bear to have snow touch my skin. Waugh is king of the extended metaphor: his become stories within the story, and are so complete in themselves as to be breathtaking. Having just read The Same Man, David Lebedoff’s hilarious double biography of Waugh and Orwell (both born in 1903), I have become fascinated with the beauty of Waugh’s writing despite his social climbing and what I had perceived to be his stuffiness. He isn’t stuffy at all. (“and as I took the cigarette from my lips and put it in hers, I caught a thin bat’s squeak of sexuality, inaudible to any but me.”) Lebedoff reminds us that Waugh wrote with a pen and Orwell with a typewriter, and the former had, perhaps partly as a result, a fluid beauty next to the staccato of Orwell, though Orwell’s work of course had beauty of its own. I have Down and Out in Paris and London and some of Orwell’s essays to read next, but for now am luxuriating in Waugh – his doom and shadows, seduction and exquisite treachery.
it's going well, evolving, moving in a new direction, more complicated in some ways, in better ways. would you look at my synopsis (2-page) and see if it makes sense? that'd be amazing. ireland is soon, moving house sooner... busy days! how's your work going? annabel sounds amazing!