Sunday 1 April 2012

It is night neddying among the snuggeries of babies.

"To Begin at the beginning:
It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobblestreets silent and the hunched, courters' -and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea. The houses are blind as moles (though moles see fine to-night in the snouting velvet dingles) or blind as Captain Cat there in the muffled middle by the pump and the town clock, the shops in mourning, the Welfare Hall in widows' weeds. And the people of the lulled and dumbfounded town are sleeping now."
I went to a few charity shops yesterday and bought some books, among which was Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas. This is part of the opening passage and I love it. It's so lyrical and rhythmic: the words trip from the tongue and tumble over each other in the most pleasureable way. There are some recordings of it being read on youtube, which I like to listen to whilst reading. God, I wish I could write like Thomas.
I also bought a book called 1001 Images of Cats, and yes, it's exactly what you think it is, and yes, it is glorius.

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