Stephen Fry, the serial tweeter, regularly posts with wit and warmth about various aspects of his frenetic, globetrotting, and glamorous life. Then one Saturday morning he draws his ever-spinning world to a sudden standstill with the tweet:
“This morning I feel profoundly sad.”
I am not generally one to blog about my own low points; you can probably identify them by the periodic silences that punctuate this site, but a prolonged period of seemingly intractable insomnia has taken its toll now so I’m about to break my own rules and share more than I should with you.
First confession. I cried most of the way through the film ‘One Day’. I have no perspective on whether that film is any good at all, but familiarity and affection with the book made me treat it with no impartiality at all. I even thought Anne Hathaway’s English accent was brilliant (apart from the occasional flat vowel sound that I think was meant to indicate Northern roots). According to one scathing review, this makes me a ‘Grazia reader’ so perhaps I better start buying this magazine!
Second confession. I cried at the end of The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. A friend leant me one of her other books, “Great House”, which was probably one of the best books I’ve read this year so I wanted to read her other. Both books are exquisitely written, beautifully observed, witty and profound. But both also have such a strong sense of loss and melancholy running through them that I felt so deeply bereft at the end I wanted to curl up and cry for a week.
Third confession. I cried in the dark silence of the night twice in the last few days. Hours of interminable tossing and turning, frustration and deprivation taking its toll on my sanity and sense of perspective.
Sometimes just crying is the thing you need, isn’t it?
That and temazepam!
Finally. as a footnote, I liberated myself from Facebook this week. A salute to the misanthropic.
The usual author of this blog should be back soon.