I’ve been seeing folks doing calls for – and offering up – playlists to offer some kind of respite from The Lockdown that’s gone into effect here in the nations of Britain and Northern Ireland. So, what better time to belatedly offer up some of my favourite tracks from the happy days of 2019?
As it happens, the apoplectic.me post of my favourite choonsof 2018 began by noting that it was the death of David Bowie that had heralded planet Earth’s one-way trip to hell in a hand basket.
So, join me, won’t you, on a trip down memory lane to when things hadn’t yet gotten entirely out of hand? Or if you don’t like wurdz, just hit up the Spotify playlist.
Interested in Nerd Bait? Before digging into this week’s post, find out how The Wee Mermannie got the girl – deleted scenes from our Book Festival Gig are part of the bonus materials included in the first issue of the fabulous FREAK Circus!
The beautiful paperback artefact is here. The electronic version that includes the unexpurgated prose version of The Tail of The Wee Mermannie is here.
Right. Now. Back to the blog.
Last Monday, I noted neuroscientist David Eagleman’s remark that the idea that we are unitary people over time is merely an illusion of continuity.
The people each of us individually are at 10, 30, 40, “share the same name and some of the same memories, but we are quite different as a person.”
During the intervening week, I wrote a short story about a man who may – or may not – have lived a succession of quite different lives. Yet there are common themes in those lives. For example, in each case, the character’s father disappears from the scene in his early years.
It wasn’t until I was reading a passage in Robert Penn Warren’s Pulitzer-prize winning novel All the King’s Men last night that I realised that my fiction had been taking a sideways look at Eagleman’s theme…. Continue reading To a Tee→
People love making transatlantic comparisons. Think Sting’s Englishman in New York. Think Toby Young’s How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. Think Jeremy Clarkson’s unfortunately abortive attempt to get himself shot in The South.
[Stroke Bloke’s back from holiday. To make up for missing last week, I commend to you this post that predated Ada Lovelace Day on 13 October.]
[Long-Suffering Girlfriend of the Blog Beth and I went to see Kahlil Joseph and Arcade Fire’s The Reflektor Tapes this past weekend. So, today seemed like a good day to repost some reflektions on the album Reflektor and… other stuff.]
One of the many rubbish things about having a massive haemorrhagic stroke is that the ever-present factor of fatigue, and the whole brain lesions thing, militate against a quick return to the traditional, full-time workforce. Continue reading Reflektor Reduks→
Hi there. I think that last week’s post, Damages, was intended as the first part of a pen diptych. But now a week has passed, I’m not entirely sure what the second half was meant to look like. Maybe it will have come to me by next week.
Was anyone keeping an eye on the award of the Man Booker Prize last week? It’s, like, the World Cup for novels.
Well, that’s not quite right. Historically, the Man Booker has only been open to authors of the Commonwealth, the Republic of Ireland, or Zimbabwe. So it’s kind of more like the Commonwealth Games for novels. The 2014 prize was the first year the prize was open to authors from anywhere in the world. AS Byatt said the prize risked diluting its identity, but blog favourite A.L. Kennedy was all for it.