With Fond Recollections of Bartleby, Scrivener Extraordinaire

In Current reading, Food, Fun, Games, Hautvoir, Local projects, Revision, Sanford Meisner on February 1, 2015 at 9:01 am

Until a few days ago, the name A.S. Byatt belonged to the vast stretches of my ignorance. I’ve since learned that the name belongs to a formidable writer – the kind that refers to Iris Murdoch as “Iris” in introductory notes to the Vintage Classics edition of The Bell, and who is interviewed by The Paris Review. I read the introductory blurb to the interview and decided I’d leave the smart and formidable to their delightful luncheon in Southern France. Chanced across another interview in which Dame Antonia chided British publishers for opting for the trite and the facile – you know, those young, self-published bloggerettes who bring in the pounds but not the prizes. The glitz. The vapidity.  Dame Antonia is a Booker Prize winner. Thus far, I’ve found her remarks so annoying, I’ll make a point of reading some of her work, but later.

The drenching rain is taking another break. The sky is clearing. Deep, vigorous coughing isn’t the finest way to self-propel down, then up, a rutted hill.But there’s food to consider, plus the intriguing notion of local activists approaching market goers with an offer to throw their name into the hat as possible candidates for the upcoming election. Candidate… uh… for what Party? No Party, a loose citizens’ coalition wishing to introduce the voice of Everyman and Woman into regional debates.

Activism and Party politics were at the core of my grown-up life for well over thirty years. At this point, I wouldn’t agree to run on any platform, not even as the potted plant (I’m not decorative enough) nor as the organizer of the door-to-door canvassers, let alone a canvasser myself.


However. In story land, I am not the character presently ascribed to lead the merry band of brothers and lone female candidate to resounding defeat or – worse yet – unexplainable triumph.

The case of the reluctant candidate, now invited to lead the troops, and march off the cliff on a rising thermal. We few, we happy few, and so on.

Podemos? Of course we can.


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