I revisited the following today:
It’s beautiful, simple, elegant, genius. One of the finest pieces of television there has ever been. Not just children’s telly. Proper telly too. With violence and tits and drugs and depression and alcoholism and everything.
Too many stories rely on alcoholism as a way of showing a character’s vulnerability. It’s annoying. But that’s a topic for another time.
I’ve been reading Orwell’s essay on Dickens. It’s superb. All his stuff is. Immensely readable, but relevant and aware of its purpose, and thus far more effective than description lead tedium that I shouldn’t even dare indulge. Like Les Mis. An immense story of fantastic values and characters. But made plodding by unnecessary indulgences in thoughts and landscapes and settings. It made no difference.
I go home soon. This should be fun. Just 3 days but 3 nice days. And this weekend I’m in Suffolk. I might talke about those. At the moment though, life is very dull.
