So, I come to the end of a busy (and fun!) weekend. Friday I went to a show of "monkey art" with Betty--not art BY monkeys, but art ABOUT monkeys. I think. Some of it could possibly have been by monkeys. But it was very interesting, and some great people-watching! Saturday went to Bin 73 for Kay's birthday, and tasted WAY too many yummy wines. Therefore I didn't get up until late this morning, and got nothing much done except to sit around and read.
But I did finish a very interesting book, "Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land" by John Crowley. Historical fiction where Byron's daughter, Ada, discovered and transcribed a "lost" novel by the poet, with a parallel modern story (told in emails) about a scholar who also discovers the work. It was quite good, lots of mathematical skullduggery and historical details. It was better than the other historical fiction I just finished, Sarah Dunant's "In the Company of the Courtesan," which featured terrific historical descriptions but not a whole lot of characterization. I kept waiting for something significant to happen, and it just never really built itself up to it. But I'll read anything about Italy. :)
One passage I particularly liked in the Crowley book:
"...no one is really a historian, all the way through, just as no one is really a writer, or really a saint. Those things can only be what you do, not what you are: you write, or you conduct historical investigations, or you do good, etc. Let other people call you the big words--Robert Frost says 'poet' is a term, only other people can apply to you. Believe me you can go through life unsure if any such title applies to you, the you inside. Poet. Star. Genius. Criminal."
Tomorrow, back to work. I'm starting a new job soon, so wish me luck.