The dream didn't really go away - it lingered painfully, stung everything with its colour. Irritating things. It juxtaposed two unfortunate recent events in my life, ones I had been taking rather well, in such a way that now both ache constantly.
Ironically, for a day I spent feeling so sore about cruel endings and dystopian futures, I stumbled across a copy of 1984 in a second hand store. My first ever favourite book! I remember when I picked it up, a heavy foggy day, and I also remember dropping it and screaming on reaching the final page. I never actually owned one, though. It's place got taken by Tolkien, then by Wilde. And I always held out a faint notion that I could steal the copy I had read at school.
OK. I am a moral individual, except when it comes to books, especially those I know I will love more than their owners. Something about that situation overwrites anything I ever learnt about theft.
And this was a battered old paperback which will one day be junked as it's falling to pieces, so I always intended to. At some point, though, I lost track of where it was in the school - probably thrown away. Cursed, cursed ethics. Apart from the sentimentality factor, the thing which really drew me to it was Goldstein's book. There's a point where our hero sits down to read a book, and the books content actually occupies about a chapter. This copy was in three pieces - the first half, the second half - and in the middle, Goldstien's book fell out like a pamphlet, exactly aligned with the section of copied text. It was like finding something hidden. Curses.
Rereading it on the bus home reminded me why I loved it, and rather calmed me down too though I don't know why. Possibly because I'm only three chapters in. Just at the right time, really. I was starting to cave on the "don't watch movies of favourite books" rule. This was the first book to which that rule ever applied, but how could I resist the movie adaptation made in 1984 itself. John Hurt as Winston. Richard Burton as O'Brien. Two actors I adore beyond adoring to begin with, not to mention that they are perfect for their parts. Burton in particular ("no one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being scrutinised from the timeless worlds of space") has a voice for which I would do anything.
In other news, I should be back tomorrow at around 4 o'clock. I say "should", because - well, you know. Rain of frogs, candyfloss hurricanes and coconut snow. I usually post my thoughts on passing over from one state of being to the other - I've thought long and hard this time, and actually the best I could do was this:
I don't need anyone taking this the wrong way, but I could, I think, handle about another week here. Never mind. See you all soon!
Ironically, for a day I spent feeling so sore about cruel endings and dystopian futures, I stumbled across a copy of 1984 in a second hand store. My first ever favourite book! I remember when I picked it up, a heavy foggy day, and I also remember dropping it and screaming on reaching the final page. I never actually owned one, though. It's place got taken by Tolkien, then by Wilde. And I always held out a faint notion that I could steal the copy I had read at school.
OK. I am a moral individual, except when it comes to books, especially those I know I will love more than their owners. Something about that situation overwrites anything I ever learnt about theft.
And this was a battered old paperback which will one day be junked as it's falling to pieces, so I always intended to. At some point, though, I lost track of where it was in the school - probably thrown away. Cursed, cursed ethics. Apart from the sentimentality factor, the thing which really drew me to it was Goldstein's book. There's a point where our hero sits down to read a book, and the books content actually occupies about a chapter. This copy was in three pieces - the first half, the second half - and in the middle, Goldstien's book fell out like a pamphlet, exactly aligned with the section of copied text. It was like finding something hidden. Curses.
Rereading it on the bus home reminded me why I loved it, and rather calmed me down too though I don't know why. Possibly because I'm only three chapters in. Just at the right time, really. I was starting to cave on the "don't watch movies of favourite books" rule. This was the first book to which that rule ever applied, but how could I resist the movie adaptation made in 1984 itself. John Hurt as Winston. Richard Burton as O'Brien. Two actors I adore beyond adoring to begin with, not to mention that they are perfect for their parts. Burton in particular ("no one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being scrutinised from the timeless worlds of space") has a voice for which I would do anything.
In other news, I should be back tomorrow at around 4 o'clock. I say "should", because - well, you know. Rain of frogs, candyfloss hurricanes and coconut snow. I usually post my thoughts on passing over from one state of being to the other - I've thought long and hard this time, and actually the best I could do was this:
I don't need anyone taking this the wrong way, but I could, I think, handle about another week here. Never mind. See you all soon!
Comments (1)
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