No more Mr Latin Teacher. What sadness. Who is going to make sure they learn good Latin, these kids? The next teacher is enthusiastic and seems a nice chap, but is he going to understand them each properly and nourish their interest and help them personally?
I went so far as to play spoons with them. I seldom play games, though I do seem to enjoy it when I do, oddly. I wish I had known spoons existed before so we could have played it many times. Oh well.
This ends up being the hard part of leaving Columbus–my little Latin students. Even if I do get more some day, I doubt they’ll be as interesting.
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I’m reading another Indridason detective novel. Why do I do it? I do it because I’m always reading some fiction, because the setting is Iceland, it is full of how the people are and live–about which I’m always curious, it is set in that weather, that clime, that surly cast of soul, and often his stories are compelling, though not all of them are. In fact, there really are only two good ones so far. The problem is that he doesn’t seem to have improved even though he’s written ten or so. Is it called hard-boiled detective fiction because of the tough quality of the writing? I start one and I think of improvements I could make–I could make! That’s pathetic, no editor should let something out that even I could improve on–and I wonder why this way and not instead this more dramatic way, etc., etc.
He suffers from the comparison with Amis and Peake, too. Peake writes well and Amis superbly, and it is hard to follow the summit reached by reading Peake first and then Amis. Perhaps I should think about that, have tides of quality of reading that I take into consideration.
You know what he does well? Plots, he thinks about them carefully enough, I could learn from him when it comes to plots, and he does the surly, rude interactions Icelandic people have so well–one laughs. And sometimes the pathos.
I want to go back to Iceland. Or visit Shetland. Or Ireland. Well, I’ll do Philadelphia. I should first finish Boswell and re-read that instead. Like Borges.
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Speaking of which, I am doing a bit of Borges these days. Have a wider selection of his poetry to go through bit by bit and I understand him better these days. Hope to do quite a bit in Philadelphia, though I should probably be happy just to find an apartment and a bit of the lay of the land.
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Speaking of impatience, I’m eager to finish Wheelock’s, and the problem is that I need to pause and shore up a thing or two, make sure I got forms down, vocabulary. I want to get on to the big time. Probably, though, not till August. Oh summer! The good thing is this one should go pretty quickly.