As soon as liberty is complete, it dies in anarchy.

Calverts Beach, oh Calverts Beach, I still hear your sea winds blowin'… Calverts Beach, South Arm. December 2010.

We discoverd a new beach (for us) a couple of weeks back: Calverts Beach, which is down off the beaten track on the South Arm Peninsula. If it ever spots raining, we might get down there again soon!

Panorama of Calverts Beach. Calverts Beach, South Arm. December 2010.

But today isn't Friday BEACH Club, and I am meant to be talking books. The past week saw me finish We can remember it for you wholesale, which is volume five of Philip K. Dick’s collected short stories,

Do you like science fiction? If so, this collection has science fiction leaking out of every pore. As a (very) casual reader of science fiction, I found this collection somewhat uneven. Some of the stories are great, many so-so. One thing that you can be guaranteed, Mr Dick had an almighty imagination…

The other book I read this week was The Takeover by Muriel Spark. As ever, Spark manages to construct an array of odd and intriguing characters. Set amongst a group of wealthy expatriates (and locals) in Italy through the 1970s, once again Spark explores the clash of modernity with ‘traditional’ values, and the pernicious influence of money.

In all, it’s a breezy tale of the undeserving, complacent rich being ripped-off by chancers. As one might expect, every character is free of any authentic moral framework. A decent read, but when all of the characters are so unlikable, it didn’t really grab me.

Calverts Beach, oh Calverts Beach, I still hear your sea waves crashing… Calverts Beach, South Arm. December 2010.

One thing that did grab me though was the description of a particular character (a real specialty of Spark's), as it adequately sums up a lot of people I've met in life, so I wanted to share it with you:

As a specimen, Letizia at eighteen was rounded-off and complete; the finishing touches were already put, there was no room for further contention between character and contours, there was scope only, now, for wear and tear. She was much as she would be, she though much as she would think, and looked not much different from what she would look, at forty-eight.

Comments

Kris McCracken said…

People don’t like the book reviews, or the beach!

18 January 2011 at 13:32

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Mad as hell

So there I was, arm hooked up to the machine, watching my plasma swirl away into a bag while the morning news dribbled across the screen like a bad fever dream. And what were they showing? A "riot" in Melbourne, allegedly. The sort of riot where the real thugs wear body armour, carry pepper spray and look like they just walked off the set of RoboCop. The people they were beating? A ragtag crew of teenagers and old hippies—probably fresh out of a drum circle, still smelling of patchouli. But sure, let's call it a riot. Now, here's where it really gets good. I mentioned this spectacle to a few people later, thinking maybe they'd share my outrage or, at the very least, give a damn. But no. What did I get instead? A smirk, a chuckle, and—oh, the pièce de résistance—"You should really just let it go." Let it go? Yeah, let me uncork a nice, overpriced cup of coffee, sit back with my legs crossed, and soak in the latest reality TV trash. Why bother caring when ...

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

This will hurt me...

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