Recharging

Another weekend gone.  I had thought I was going to see the K.S.O. perform at the Glenn Gould studio downtown.  However, that concert was scrubbed from their website.  I don't have the inside scoop, but I suspect one or more of the orchestra members haven't been vaccinated and thus were not allowed to perform due to lingering safety protocols.  I mean I don't know that for certain, but it was very strange how I couldn't find any information about this concert at all, but they are still planning on making a trip to Toronto a year from now!  I decided to just stay home for the day (and not go to any of the Toronto Jazz Fest shows either).  One interesting side effect of being in one place for so long was that in the afternoon, I expected to see the Sunday papers.

While I had visions of straightening up the back room, I didn't do much of that and mostly worked on getting books from the front room out into the Little Free Library.  I finally dragged myself across the line and finished Beckett's The Unnamable, which I absolutely loathed.  I didn't much care for the 2nd half of Molloy or Malone Dies, but they had some internal coherence, despite being tedious beyond belief.  But The Unnamable is just a big FU aimed at the reader.  Quite possibly the biggest let down of my reading life, even more than Faulkner's A Fable, which I certainly hated.  However, Faulkner still has a plot of sorts and characters, even if he sometimes obscures which character he is writing about in any given paragraph.  I had thought Faulkner was more or less the king of long paragraphs and run-on sentences, but The Unnamable is 145 pages long with no or essentially no breaks.  Just one long interior monologue that resolutely refuses to cohere.  At one point we are led to believe all the narrator's limbs are missing and he is outdoors in a jar or vase, which is horrific enough, but then it seems this is not true but some sort of perverse fantasy perhaps.  Anyway, completely pointless.  I think every reader is well aware of the existence of unreliable narrators, but this was far too long and boring and frustrating.  Beckett made his point in 10 pages or so and then just wouldn't go away (perhaps a bit like my non-review).  What slays me is that he covers the same general territory more effectively in a few pages in so many of his plays, so why did he feel the need to drone on and on and on here?  Maybe what annoys me even more is the dozen or more reviewers on Goodreads giving this "novel" 5 stars.  Pretentious bastards...

While nowhere at the same level of unhappiness with the author, I am finding Isak Dinesen is much more miss than hit for me.  I only really liked one or two stories from Winter's Tales. I'm close to halfway through Seven Gothic Tales and am not that gripped by any of the stories, plus I strongly disliked "The Monkey," as it is largely written in a realist mode but then throws in a fairy tale twist ending from left-field.  Someone on Amazon noted that most of the stories in Seven Gothic Tales end with an untranslated sentence (in the case of The Monkey," a misquote from Virgil), which is more pretentious than enlightening. I don't recall if she did this in Winter's Tales, but I don't think so.

I've certainly fallen far behind in my reviewing duties, though I suspect I will make a last push and get to 14 or 15 reviews in the next few days.  I've read the books but just need to write down my thoughts.  There actually was a month where the Canadian challenge host was down, and I was wondering if this was a sign I should just drop the whole reviewing business, but then it came back online, and I finished a book (Station Eleven) that I would actually like to review, so I guess I'll go on for now.  If I do review books for one more cycle, I'll probably mostly try to get through this huge stack of poetry books, mostly from Brick Books, and possibly Atwood's MaddAdam trilogy, though I suspect this would be tackled 8 or 9 months from now.

Sunday was a more typical weekend day in that I had a specific agenda.  I headed out early with my son for Union Station where we caught the bus to Hamilton.  (Fortunately, the strike that messed up GO Bus service is over!)  There was some accidental that snarled traffic just outside of Hamilton but overall the ride was fairly smooth.  Also the bus was maybe half full, unlike our previous trip where it  was uncomfortably packed.  I was reading Station Eleven and listening to my iPod, which passed the time.

We were there to go to the Art Gallery of Hamilton to see the Margaret Watkins exhibit, which was extended to August 14, so roughly 6 weeks left to go.  It was quite nice.  I'd seen quite a few of these photographs in two books covering her career, though there were a few photos from London and Scotland that I don't recall seeing in either book.  

We ran outside to see the sculpture garden, only to be told it was off-limits for a bridal reception, which was in the indoor space next to the garden.  I'm all for the Gallery renting out space to keep afloat, but it seems a dereliction of duty to make the whole sculpture garden unavailable to the public.  I managed to sneak in a shot of this Sorel Etrog piece anyway.

A bit miffed, we headed upstairs after that.  It had been reorganized quite a bit with less emphasis on the Group of Seven and Painters Eleven, though they still had several Lawren Harris paintings up on the walls.  I don't recall this Riopelle panel, though I might have just overlooked it on a previous visit.

Jean-Paul Riopelle, Atlas du Nord, 1973

Stopping at the bookstore on the way out, I decided the Watkins catalogue, Black Light, was a bit too pricey, but there were some publications from the Hidden Lane Gallery in Glasgow covering many of the London and Glasgow images new to me, so I grabbed two of them.

Then we went across the street to Jackson Square for lunch.  We went to an Indian street food place, which was fine, but I'll have to remember to tell them no onions the next time (if there is a next time).  I was sad that the farmers' market was completely closed on Sunday.  I don't know if that means on my pre-pandemic visits I usually came over on Saturday or if the hours are just much shorter post-COVID.  Hard to tell.

We hustled over to the GO Bus station and made it with just under ten minutes to spare, so we didn't have to wait too long.  There were a few passengers who were dressed up for the Pride parade.  It was supposed to rain in the early afternoon, but the weather changed and the rain held off until 8 pm or so, which was nice that the Pride Parade wasn't spoiled.

There are still a lot of facadectomies going on in Hamilton, though I suppose overall it's good there is any investment happening. 

As we headed out of downtown Hamilton, we passed this big pile of bricks.  No idea what was originally there or what will be built there next.

Back in Toronto, we saw some people coming back from Pride.  I continued reading Station Eleven and got down to the last chapter.  I had been thinking of going to the gym anyway (twice in one weekend!), and this was a good excuse.  Indeed, I finished the book just as my cardio session wrapped up.  I liked it quite a bit, probably the most entertaining book I've read in a while, though I found Celine and Arlt to be interesting, even if on the bleak side.  I suppose Lodge's Therapy was more of a comedy overall.  At any rate, I will do my best to get a review in over the next few days.  In general, my timing for the day was quite good as I didn't get rained on in Hamilton and all the rain (that we had been promised) fell in a ten minute span while I was still at the gym.  Just lucky, I guess.