The great tired of London-by-the-sea
I’ve been writing a long new entry for This Space, my new blog. I sit at work and daydream of what can be said (it was prompted by Dan Green’s post about science’s attitude to art). But by evening, because of work, tiredness floods the causeways between ideas. So I’ve given up. I can’t read either, so I stare at the TV. A documentary about synaesthesia. It smelt good.
And from desultory Amazon browsing, I see that the translation of Jacques Roubaud’s essays is slated to appear in December. It was cancelled earlier this year by Green Integer. The publisher’s site offers no details, and they never replied to my enquiry. So I shrug my shoulders. Spurious tells me Amazon hasn’t delivered a copy of Roubaud’s great novel The Great Fire of London, so maybe it’s unavailable. That is appalling. Read the opening page here. Perhaps the coincidence of three words in the title attracted me to check out Shirley Hazzard’s new book. Usually one can not only judge a book by its cover but by its title too. Not so sure about the words inside though. Tend not to bother myself.
Other Splinters posts of interest:
