Henry V on trapeze was shockingly good!  If you’re in the Raleigh area in the next five days, consider giving paying the Burning Coal Theatre a visit.  A lot of work had clearly gone into the production, and I was really impressed with the level of skill (both in terms of trapeze work and Shakespearean acting, and the combination of the two).

I’ve been horrendously busy and have all sorts of things to tell you about, but no time.  So just enjoy some stuff from the internet and some book ramblings and we’ll call it a day. 🙂


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Upon the recommendation of some friends with flawless literary taste, I read Maus by Art Spiegelman, which is a graphic novel about the Holocaust, with the Jews as mice and the Nazis as cats.  Reading about the horrors of Auschwitz from the perspective of a mouse at 1:00 in the morning was a pretty surreal experience.  I don’t understand why I didn’t think it was very good; it’s undeniably powerful and well-done.  After giving my friends a callous review of it, I realized I’ve maybe read too many books on the Holocaust.  If that sort of thing doesn’t move you anymore, you’ve definitely read too much of it, and you have no business discussing it anymore.

I read Against Nature by Joris-Karl Huysmans, a copy of which I swiped years ago from a professor’s free-book shelf.  Oscar Wilde was evidently fascinated by the book, and in The Picture of Dorian Gray, Dorian reads this “poisonous French novel” and is obsessed by it.  What sort of book would Dorian Gray enjoy, you ask?  Mainly a very long catalogue of the likes and dislikes of an effete, high-strung , overly intellectual wuss possessing far too much time and money and lacking all common sense.  The novel didn’t strike me as particularly dangerous–merely silly, instead.  The main character is obsessed with artifice, and this tendency is best illustrated in the chapter in which he decides his fabulously decorated hermitage needs some light and movement.  He has the shell of a live, giant tortoise covered in gold.  When this doesn’t tickle his fancy sufficiently, he has the gold shell encrusted in jewels.  At the end of this lengthy turtle shell description, the main character realizes the tortoise isn’t moving.  The poor thing has died from the stress (or possibly the boredom).  By the end of the book, I felt pretty much like the tortoise.

I’m currently still toying with The Idylls of the King, which is always enjoyable, while also starting The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius, a 6th century Latin writer.  I am *not* reading it in Latin, however.  My masochistic streak isn’t that wide!  Boethius influenced scores of writers, however, and this work is quite widely regarded, so I’m looking forward to delving deeper into it.