I noticed today, in passing, that autumn is ablaze. I also noticed that usually I hardly notice such things at all but today the amount of ablazeness stopped me in my morning tracks, at quarter to seven AM, with the natural light still very much absent. A huge maple tree amidst flickering shadows, surrounded by several bushes of some sort or another (one can hardly be expected to smoothly identify various types of shrubbery now can one?), lit from above by a solitary streetlamp, leaves emblazoned with variations of green, yellow, amber and red. I stood and I stared, astonished by the beauty, or if not quite then slightly captivated by the beauty anyway, for a full minute, or at least half a minute which felt like a full minute, before hurrying onwards and forgetting all about it for the rest of the day.

But I’m looking forward to encountering the colours again tomorrow morning.

The days of autumnal beauty are always fleeting, always few, always just leaving, and always strictly numbered. If the rains refrain from falling and the air is crisp and still, it’s not altogether impossible to notice, in passing, that maybe this autumn time isn’t so bad after all.


This picture is not of the tree I saw but just something I found on the net, and although it has its’ merits, it’s nowhere near as amazing as my private autumnal maple tree in it’s secret and unphotographed location.

RECENT EXPOSURE TO WRITTEN WORD:
“Memoirs of a Master Forger”, by Graham Joyce, using the elaborately made up penname William Heaney, who is also the main character of the book, seemingly making it an autobiography of sorts. The identity of the author wasn’t a secret as such, since the book was published in United States under Joyce’s own name (and a different title), but clearly some effort went into fleshing out the Heaney character nevertheless, with a proper author bio planted around the net and even a blog. The blog started before the book was actually published but I read it only after I had read the novel and didn’t really identify the blog’s writer with the man who I got to know from the book. The book, on the other hand, was quite a treat to read and I was sorry it was over so fast. Graham Joyce writes in a gripping and straightforward manner but easily slips into a more eloquent mode when needed, his characters are intriguing and convincingly outlined and their dialogue is interesting and intelligent. And the protagonist claims he can see demons, describing his encounters with their smoke-like essence in a prosaic yet chilling way. The storyline falters a bit towards the end in my opinion and the actual ending leaves the reader standing out in the cold when a warm “come on in” would have been needed, but all in all it was a good and enjoyable reading experience and I look forward to reading more of his novels.

I’ve read other books as well. “The Hippopotamus” by Stephen Fry was entertaining, mostly because the way he puts words together is so delicious and rich. The story develops interestingly at first, in form of letters secretly sent by an undercover ex-poet (now too embittered to write anything decent anymore apart from dirty limericks) on a mission from his sick goddaughter, to unearth curious goings-on at an enormous country mansion. See the link above for more plot details. As the storyline advances and opens up, it takes a bit of a nosedive, as in my opinion so many books unfortunately tend to do. Maybe I should pick up something by Terry Pratchett for a change, he was always good with endings if I remember correctly. It’s been a few years since I last read a new Discworld novel.

Another haunting and undescribable novel from Russell Hoban: “My Tango With Barbara Strozzi”. Maybe “undescribable” isn’t the most fitting description here since M John Harrison does a pretty good job of describing what happens during the novels’ course, in the link above. Hoban’s writing is something I deeply identify with and draw considerable reading pleasure from. I’ve written about him and my admiration for him on several occasions in this blog already and feel no need to repeat myself now, except for lamenting the fact that I’m starting to reach a point where there are no new Russell Hoban novels left for me to read anymore.