There she blows

Margaret Drabble writes with an omniscience that absolutely wows me. Rereading The Realms of Gold is like being strapped inside a rocket ship. Though the rocket permeates the depths of consciousness rather than outer space. It's really quite a Woolfian book in many respects, which I didn't notice when I read it first three years ago. It didn't get a very good review in the NYTimes when it came out in 1975 though. Funny how much the criticism in that review is so similar to reviews of Drabble's most recent book. Funny also that when I read bad reviews of Margaret Drabble's work, I don't ever necessarily disagree with them, but it never means I love her any less. In fact I think my love for Margaret Drabble may be unconditional. This, however, does not mean I intend to read her biography of Arnold Bennett ever.

Upcoming bookishness: Suite Francais, Kitchen, The Horseman's Graves, and Open because The Calhoun says so.

Marking continues. 46 down. Yesterday's treat was lunch with RR.