When we were orphans

Well, after this week, I know what it’s like to “throw out” one’s back. There were hours on Monday and Tuesday when I hardly could walk. To get to the toilet, I had to inch my way out of bed and cling along the furniture.

But I didn’t miss any work. At home, I rested. Now I feel downright spry.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’ve nearly finished reading Kazuo Ishiguro’s When We Were Orphans. What an odd book. It’s partly a detective story, with none of the investigative precision of the usual detective story. It’s partly a fantasy – not of fantastical physics, but of fantastical life expectations. It’s partly a heartrending memoir, with the foggiest, least reliable of memoirists.

The chaotic events and feelings of this book unfold with creeping slowness, in language exquisitely formal and unchaotic.

And yet: if this book is more admirable than affecting, more a construction than a spontaneous cry, that is not a fault.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Barcelona played well and bravely in the second semifinal leg, winning again on Brazilian soil. But 1–0 wasn’t ample enough a victory. Grêmio advanced to play in the final. Now I shall cheer for the modest Argentinian club, Lanús.