To look life in the face,
always to look life in the face
and to know it for what it is.
At last to know it,
to love it for what it is
and then to put it away.
Leonard, always the years between us;
always the years;
always the love.
Always the hours
From The Hours
Just finished watching The Hours again, before I finally delete it from my HD. I remember how all of us, children, used to gently tease our grandfather because he used to be teary-eye over every single movie he watched on TV. Well, guess who regularly sheds tears over intense, or even silly, melodramatic bits these days?
Have not being doing much since this morning, except reading from my notes, writing down bits and pieces for my essay, and finishing Douglas Adams’ Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, which I began yesterday night.
I find that I was mistaken in that earlier post: Orwell’s Keep the Aspidistra Flying and Beckett’s Happy Days are both included in the reading list, while it is Beckett’s Waiting For Godot – that canonical aristocrat – that’s been guillotined…
But for such a short play, Happy Days is ridiculously expensive on Amazon (and elsewhere, I expect…). Arrgh, Beckett, why did you write such short, short plays!? Unless, I purchase a collected works edition…That’s a thought.
I believe I will be having an early dinner, since I skipped lunch. I’m thinking of defrosting some of the chappatis I bought (sacrilege!) last week and frying a piece of salmon to accompany the red lentil dhal I cooked yesterday. The dhal is almost too spicy, even for my standards, but diluting it would neutralise its distinctive taste. Perhaps some salad as accompaniment will tone down the heat. I always have to check myself while cooking at my aunt’s place since she isn’t used to my Mauritian style of cooking. British food is good, well, at least the food I am able to eat, but I couldn’t survive merely on that. I definitely will have to prepare something for my friends soon. Preferably something that will leave them alive and standing up afterwards.
Speaking of fish, here’s my aunt’s neighbour’s cat, which I’ve had an interesting time interacting with. Here it is, beckoned by me, but puzzled by the transparent window pane. I gather that I am to be blamed for the general impermeability of glass.