Priestley ends the book with the bang hoped for. The solid Socialist promise of a serious future making films meaningful, back turned on empty, flashy hollywood glamour. "A little brilliantly-illuminated stage. . . atmosphere of solemn tenderness for life. . . . that theatre of creation . . ."
The Allingtons flawed so deeply that Joan had pushed Eva off the ledge. "Hinchcliff" surely too much of a name for a character but he did it anyway. Perfectly structured five act, twelve chapter drama, with the ten year old girl on the ledge being the one thirty years later to give him the final revelation of the murder and the promise of a new life, with her perhaps, and in the new british cinema of renewed communal destiny.
PT with Maggie and use of the cane; double checked on the approval from cardio to renew snorkeling. Pavers have polished up their work on Emerson Street. Wade phoned from Lebanon about swapping the cars tomorrow; mine now fully charged.
Why did I read that novel again? I suppose a masochistic desire to do penance for once before having tried to skim it, speed to the ending, mistreat it.
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Damian Kelleher posts "It’s difficult to overstate how exciting the second book in the trilogy is. All of the conventions of the first book are overturned and literature itself gets knocked down and rebuilt
It’s like going from two dimensions to four. And the fourth is pure obscenity."
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