I thought, in view of my recent postings on GKC—I know tangentially some likable chaps who consider themselves acolytes—that I should give the bugger the benefit of the doubt, and investigate other writings of his beyond the odious and insipid Orthodoxy which I disliked so much.
At least one title has yet to be shipped from its extraneous Public Library branch (the CPL, if it works at all, works in mysterious ways), but three others arrived: The Man Who Was Thursday, The Essential Father Brown, and Chesterton on Shakespeare. (Also Garry Wills on GKC.)
As it happened, I got sick—a cold, but quite a monstrous one—and then I got involved in another project. Meanwhile books and books began to pile in from their various branches, to the point where I had at least fifteen piled high. Needless to say, overwhelmed, I shunted more than half back, and, as it turned out, inadvertently, the one I most had designs on, Chesterton on Shakespeare was included in the batch.
Now, the book is a compilation, not itself by his hand; but a nice consolidation (I figured) of his thoughts on a leading figure. Of course, I don't possess a book even briefly without at least flipping through it a little bit, and I think I found bits and pieces that were of interest. Now, alas, the sustained study which I had intended, cannot happen unless I reorder the book, which I am loathe to do for a writer that has failed to inspire me.
Thursday went back. In my glance-through, I found a couple of examples of "cheap effect" writing of a type that I find annoying (if not reprehensible), but I thought, do I really want to revisit this in greater depth, when the opus itself seemed less than compelling? "No," I chortled to myself aloud, and shipped the book back.
Also accidentally, the Essential was left behind. Were I a young man, and still in my dick phase, I might find the stories quite droll and fun; but, frankly, the last thing I want to do these days is look at detective fiction.
So I'm pissed off that the wrong title was sent back, and the wrong title left behind; but I shall have to live with that. Cicero meanwhile beckons, but I have not been able to muster the energy for it: easier to be lazy and do nothing, especially as the holidays approach. Half of Atticus is better than none, and I consider it time well spent; but I will be happier if I follow through to the end: momentous history is in the making.
As an aside, though—but in line with my topic—I had a chance to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap performed. As the longest-running play in history I felt it worth some attention. My reaction was about exactly what it was to her novel I read years ago (and which equalled that of Edmund Wilson, as I reported previously). It captivated my interest well enough while the action was occurring—the performance was well done—but at the conclusion I felt something of a terrific letdown: "I never want to do that again."
My understanding is she wrote numerous plays, and all were successful—in fact her success sounds similar to W. Somerset Maugham's as a dramatist: multiple productions running at once. Bully, bully, I guess. Just one more bit of the puzzle why, when it comes to popular taste, I find myself so frequently at the periphery. Possibly that explains my reaction to Father and Thursday. Not my cup of tea, eh wot?
At least one title has yet to be shipped from its extraneous Public Library branch (the CPL, if it works at all, works in mysterious ways), but three others arrived: The Man Who Was Thursday, The Essential Father Brown, and Chesterton on Shakespeare. (Also Garry Wills on GKC.)
As it happened, I got sick—a cold, but quite a monstrous one—and then I got involved in another project. Meanwhile books and books began to pile in from their various branches, to the point where I had at least fifteen piled high. Needless to say, overwhelmed, I shunted more than half back, and, as it turned out, inadvertently, the one I most had designs on, Chesterton on Shakespeare was included in the batch.
Now, the book is a compilation, not itself by his hand; but a nice consolidation (I figured) of his thoughts on a leading figure. Of course, I don't possess a book even briefly without at least flipping through it a little bit, and I think I found bits and pieces that were of interest. Now, alas, the sustained study which I had intended, cannot happen unless I reorder the book, which I am loathe to do for a writer that has failed to inspire me.
Thursday went back. In my glance-through, I found a couple of examples of "cheap effect" writing of a type that I find annoying (if not reprehensible), but I thought, do I really want to revisit this in greater depth, when the opus itself seemed less than compelling? "No," I chortled to myself aloud, and shipped the book back.
Also accidentally, the Essential was left behind. Were I a young man, and still in my dick phase, I might find the stories quite droll and fun; but, frankly, the last thing I want to do these days is look at detective fiction.
So I'm pissed off that the wrong title was sent back, and the wrong title left behind; but I shall have to live with that. Cicero meanwhile beckons, but I have not been able to muster the energy for it: easier to be lazy and do nothing, especially as the holidays approach. Half of Atticus is better than none, and I consider it time well spent; but I will be happier if I follow through to the end: momentous history is in the making.
As an aside, though—but in line with my topic—I had a chance to see Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap performed. As the longest-running play in history I felt it worth some attention. My reaction was about exactly what it was to her novel I read years ago (and which equalled that of Edmund Wilson, as I reported previously). It captivated my interest well enough while the action was occurring—the performance was well done—but at the conclusion I felt something of a terrific letdown: "I never want to do that again."
My understanding is she wrote numerous plays, and all were successful—in fact her success sounds similar to W. Somerset Maugham's as a dramatist: multiple productions running at once. Bully, bully, I guess. Just one more bit of the puzzle why, when it comes to popular taste, I find myself so frequently at the periphery. Possibly that explains my reaction to Father and Thursday. Not my cup of tea, eh wot?
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