April 11th, 2005

fat pony like thunder

labour pains

So, Andrea Dworkin is dead. She always annoyed the crap out of me, mostly because she elevated her own personal experiences to the level of universal truth (always a dangerous thing), particularly about sexuality. But I thought Susie Bright's remarkably balanced piece about her old adversary* was very good.

In more cheerful news..... majea was in town! Which was, of course, fabulous, even if the poor thing chose the weekend in which Dublin returned to some sort of ice age (it's actually nice and balmy again now), so there was a lot of shivering in the rain. But fun was had, over-priced food was eaten, the Stag's was visited, and certain parties *cough*zoje_george*cough* were sent increasingly mad text messages. Come back soon, majea! Ju Ju misses her one admirer! She certainly isn't getting much admiration from me, as I am insanely tired. I had to go out to the wilds of county Dublin to see a play last night, and then get up at an ungodly hour this morning to write about it. The taxi there and back (which was on a work account, thank God) was €80. Each way. That's €160 all together. They could have flown me to Paris and back several times for the cost of this little outing (and in less time, I think). But the play was actually really good, so it wasn't too hellish, although now I am so knackered I just want to lie down and not do any work for about a month. Alas, I have to go to not one but two plays this week for othe worky things, so my leisure will be short lived. Bah! And also, hurrah! Work! I shouldn't complain too much, I know, although I will.

*Link from rozk, who also posted an excellent Dworkin review of her own
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    John Cage
fat pony like thunder

la!

Ooh, I absolutely love Casanova. The second episode was as funny and likeable as the first, with even more staggeringly fabulous costumes straight out of a Fragonard painting*. Fuelling my 18th century love is The Age of Scandal by T. H. White, a book about 18th century England which I picked up at the Trinity Book Sale last week. T.H. White wrote The Once and Future King, one of my favourite books, and I was delighted to discover that he'd written about the demented Georgians. But I was slightly shocked when I started reading the first few chapters and, to my faint horror, found myself perusing a paen to the glorious days when the English aristocracy ruled the world, and a lament for the new post-war age and a Labour government who gloried in kicking the aristocracy off their perches. I didn't want to discover that someone whose writing I loved was quite so noxious, especially as I'd always understood that he was rather a liberal eccentric. And then I read on. And realised that the book, which claimed in its opening chapters to show what England had lost in demoting its nobility, was packed full of stories about aristocratic sloth, lust and avarice, not to mention even more exotic sins like necrophilia. By the time I reached lines like "the elegance of the sedan chair, however, ought not to lead us into overlooking the grimy faces who often peered through its glasses, or spattered it with mud in a riot, or died on foreign battlefields to preserve the comforts of its patrician owner", I realised without much doubt that this was satire. Which was a relief, quite frankly. And made for a much more entertaining book. Although how shameful that I, who wrote my undergrad dissertation on 18th century satire, should be so slow to recognise satire about the 18th century...

*title or description
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    the sound of P reading a book about the french revolution.