I've checked this book out once or twice before during this calendar year, but didn't get around to reading the thing until now. And that's a shame because it was surprisingly good. It shouldn't have been, since it's written in the same early-20th-century British style that can be taxing at times. But somehow the characters were just convincing enough and the plot (there was a plot?) was just compelling enough that it kept me going.
From what I've read about him online, Maugham was gay. Not that it matters, but I think this might well be the first book I've ever read by a gay person. It's irrelevant, of course. I like the music of Tchaikovsky and Doug Pinnick from King's X too, and it doesn't make any difference.
So yes though. It's been a very long time since I've written one of these little essays. Responses, reactions, narratives, I don't know. Not reviews. But I was perusing the old stuff I'd written and was kind of impressed. Like when I wrote about Ring that "images freak me out more than my imagination, but only because my imagination can be selective in self-defense." That's just good stuff. I inspired myself. Let's see if I can do more like that.
On the downside to this newfound commitment however, I'm not reading nearly as much as I was before. I'm employed, and I have operas to listen to. Hmm. Now there's an idea. I should keep a log of the operas I've listened to. I think I'll go start a page for that right now.