A quiet holiday at home
Ahhhh, Fall Break (until Tuesday). A brief holiday, but a sorely needed one. I plan to rest and to dissertate. The section I’m currently writing is about the book of Ezekiel, chapter 4.
No holiday for Karin, even though she could use one, the poor dear. She’s miserably ill. Right now, we’re watching Pac-12 football (sort of) and she’s preparing the treasury report for our church.
The kitties just had a tremendous fight at the highest level of their cat tree. They do that sometimes. Outside, the weather is very stormy.
I read the inaugural Flashman novel by George MacDonald Fraser. Flashman is the James Bond of the 19th century, but more of a rake and a bastard, and certainly more of a coward. Unlike the Bond books, the history in Flashman is scrupulously accurate. The first book treats Britain’s imperial debacle in Afghanistan. It’s often said that U.S. officials would’ve known not to invade Afghanistan if only they’d recalled the Soviet debacle there. Well, they could just as profitably have read Flashman.
Imagine something like J.G. Farrell’s Siege of Krishnapur, comparably funny and anti-imperial but shown through a dastardly lens. That’s how Flashman is. Suppose one were to teach a course on British postcolonial novels. One couldn’t assign Krishnapur and Flashman right next to one another. They’re too alike; any reader would get burnt out. But one might arrange the books along Northrop Frye’s seasonal wheel, (i) reading Farrell, one of the gentler ironists, three-quarters through the term, and then (ii) going through one or two other ironical books before (iii) concluding with Flashman – irony at its bleakest, most wintry, and most comic.
(The kitties are fighting again at top of their cat tree. There are lightning forks outside the window.)
No holiday for Karin, even though she could use one, the poor dear. She’s miserably ill. Right now, we’re watching Pac-12 football (sort of) and she’s preparing the treasury report for our church.
The kitties just had a tremendous fight at the highest level of their cat tree. They do that sometimes. Outside, the weather is very stormy.
I read the inaugural Flashman novel by George MacDonald Fraser. Flashman is the James Bond of the 19th century, but more of a rake and a bastard, and certainly more of a coward. Unlike the Bond books, the history in Flashman is scrupulously accurate. The first book treats Britain’s imperial debacle in Afghanistan. It’s often said that U.S. officials would’ve known not to invade Afghanistan if only they’d recalled the Soviet debacle there. Well, they could just as profitably have read Flashman.
Imagine something like J.G. Farrell’s Siege of Krishnapur, comparably funny and anti-imperial but shown through a dastardly lens. That’s how Flashman is. Suppose one were to teach a course on British postcolonial novels. One couldn’t assign Krishnapur and Flashman right next to one another. They’re too alike; any reader would get burnt out. But one might arrange the books along Northrop Frye’s seasonal wheel, (i) reading Farrell, one of the gentler ironists, three-quarters through the term, and then (ii) going through one or two other ironical books before (iii) concluding with Flashman – irony at its bleakest, most wintry, and most comic.
(The kitties are fighting again at top of their cat tree. There are lightning forks outside the window.)