Critic Cal

Right, I need to stop subconsciously assuming the characters of the characters of every novel I read. So much for all that chat about being intentional, thoughtful, processing stuff carefully, etc etc -- apparently that only works if the fictional examples I encounter behave likewise. Latest example, The Post Office, by Charles Bukowski (a postmodern triumph!). Lots of drinking, lots of fearless bluntness, lots of job dissatisfaction. Cue an evening of unchecked work-misery-plus-too-much-red-wine-fuelled mouthing-off and generally being an arse. Followed by a morning of self-reproach-plus-back-to-work-fuelled misery, and a definite longing to chuck it all in and turn poet, if only I had Bukowski's lyricism -- I never saw such stark, brief language used to such effect! In the morning it was morning and I was still alive. Maybe I'll write a novel, I thought. And then I did. Thing is, Bukowski's three-quarters-autobiographical lead character, Chinaski, actually hides a go

"I have a story that will make you believe in God" -- a promise made by a 'spry, bright-eyed elderly man' to a writer's-block-stricken author, as they make polite conversation in a busy coffee house in India. And it is precisely this 'story' that lifts Yann Martel 's fictional author [1] from the mire of despondent unproductivity and occupies the remainder of Life of Pi ...my latest venture into the world of contemporary literature. That this novel, like my previous venture , should be so pre-occupied with religion, prompted some hasty generalisation on my part -- until Mr. W reminded me of the high chance of selection bias in a sample based on recommendations made by people who know me. That said, the attitudes and ideas reflected by the two books, as examples of what 'the rest of the world' are reading at the moment, provide some indication that God -- His existence or otherwise, and what to do about it -- is still a burning question. And t

August Bank Holiday weekend saw me, for once -- twice, even -- successfully coaxed substantial-ish distances away from home. In part this was due to some uncomfortable lunch-room conversations on the importance of disturbing one's routine in order to develop emotional intelligence. But the prospect of theatre helped; local summer offerings have lacked appeal (I am really, really glad that the ageing cast members of ' The Good Life ' are so comfortably provided for by the interminable stream of Alan Ayckbourn at the Bath Theatre Royal -- but I don't feel the need to witness it first-hand). So we were Saturday in Stratford-upon-Avon, for the current RSC production of ' King John ', and Monday in York, for the ' York Mystery Plays '. These two had in common a certain irreverence in their treatment of the original texts. In the case of the first this bothered me very little -- 'King John' is hardly beloved even amongst Shakespeare die-hards, and