It is the only thing worth talking about, isn’t it?
Finished an Orson Scott Card book. I like his way of telling stories. I like the calm with which he goes into the action bits, how he investigates and exposes the biological bits, how he leaves out explaining the unnecessary.
He’s something of an odditiy with his catholics and never failing to mention Mormons. There are always extremely painful moments also calmly told, gory but never overwrought. A bit of the left and the right always mixed in, but for all that a reliable voice and reliably told story every time that I’ve listened to him.
Gave up on something by Condoleezza Rice. Interesting the assurance, but otherwise not interesting. It was about her family and her life and such.
Read a rave review by C.S. Lewis to Joy Davidman of Arthur C. Clarke’s The End of Childhood [Childhood’s End, that is]. Have that now. Not done a whole lot of the old boy, other than his juvenile letters to Dunsany. I’ve read some of Lewis’s replies to Clarke’s mail and not formed a great impression of the man. But Lewis saw something in this.
Time to do some long, steadfast Russian novels too, it seems to me.
* * *
Mondays and Tuesdays I stay home and study. And so I study all morning, and then I rest, and then I pray. And that is a good method. Because when you can no longer study well, and you have prayed, and everything is set for tomorrow, then you can paint again!
If only the wife would not interrupt my quiet by puking out her guts . . .