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I Capture the Castle
Sep. 24th, 2006 09:03 amLittle Store did brilliantly yesterday. This shocked me – inventory is way down, the shipment of teeshirts that was supposed to come in Friday will not come in till next week. Still, we did over 70 sales. I don't think we've ever done that many sales before in a single day.
Came home, did a chicken and Caesar salad for the enchanting Robin, then sequestered myself in my bedroom to watch the BBC version of I Capture the Castle.
I Capture the Castle is one of my favorite books. I make no apologies for that. On the surface it's a romance novel, but on a deeper level it's Jane Austin transported to pre-WWII England though written as a gushing, first person narrative through the medium of its heroine's diary. Along with Anne Frank's, Cassandra Mortmain's diary was the inspiration for my own which I started writing in 1964 at the age of twelve. And while I've written many, many other things in my life (with some small degree of success) I suspect autobiographical writing is my forte – both a blessing and a curse, that, as I am not important enough in the bigger scheme of the world to carry the weight of close scrutiny I give my own life.
My journal is an indulgence – but it keeps me sane, as Anne Frank's diary kept her sane, as the fictional Cassandra Mortmain's diary kept her sane amidst the immense squalor of her picturesque life.
The film did not entirely disappoint. The actresses who played Cassandra and Rose were wonderful. The Mortmains' situation – over-educated, over-observant, teetering on the edge of insolvency; expectations pinned to the Great Book that would float them into the sky – of course reminded me of my own.
When I fell asleep, I dreamed of France. I was in Paris with Robin. We'd just come out the other side of a tunnel like one of the ones in Central Park. I was explaining the architecture – "See? The present and the past are a continuum…"
When I woke up this morning – in a really pleasant mood – I thought how odd it was that I'd dreamed of Robin, how odd it was that I'd dreamed of myself. I have a very vivid dream life but generally the point of narration is far removed from the act we've known for all these years. In my dreams, I'm a businessman on a plane. Or a magician in 17th century Vienna. Or a temple prostitute in Paleolithic Greece. I am never, ever me.
A therapist once told me that this was diagnostic of the fact that I have a very weak ego.
So it was odd that I dreamed of Robin, and meaningful that I'd dreamed of Robin – I suppose in the last six months I've come to think of us as a team, a dyad: Robin and I against the world. And Robin is about to turn twelve – the age I remember most fondly.
Came home, did a chicken and Caesar salad for the enchanting Robin, then sequestered myself in my bedroom to watch the BBC version of I Capture the Castle.
I Capture the Castle is one of my favorite books. I make no apologies for that. On the surface it's a romance novel, but on a deeper level it's Jane Austin transported to pre-WWII England though written as a gushing, first person narrative through the medium of its heroine's diary. Along with Anne Frank's, Cassandra Mortmain's diary was the inspiration for my own which I started writing in 1964 at the age of twelve. And while I've written many, many other things in my life (with some small degree of success) I suspect autobiographical writing is my forte – both a blessing and a curse, that, as I am not important enough in the bigger scheme of the world to carry the weight of close scrutiny I give my own life.
My journal is an indulgence – but it keeps me sane, as Anne Frank's diary kept her sane, as the fictional Cassandra Mortmain's diary kept her sane amidst the immense squalor of her picturesque life.
The film did not entirely disappoint. The actresses who played Cassandra and Rose were wonderful. The Mortmains' situation – over-educated, over-observant, teetering on the edge of insolvency; expectations pinned to the Great Book that would float them into the sky – of course reminded me of my own.
When I fell asleep, I dreamed of France. I was in Paris with Robin. We'd just come out the other side of a tunnel like one of the ones in Central Park. I was explaining the architecture – "See? The present and the past are a continuum…"
When I woke up this morning – in a really pleasant mood – I thought how odd it was that I'd dreamed of Robin, how odd it was that I'd dreamed of myself. I have a very vivid dream life but generally the point of narration is far removed from the act we've known for all these years. In my dreams, I'm a businessman on a plane. Or a magician in 17th century Vienna. Or a temple prostitute in Paleolithic Greece. I am never, ever me.
A therapist once told me that this was diagnostic of the fact that I have a very weak ego.
So it was odd that I dreamed of Robin, and meaningful that I'd dreamed of Robin – I suppose in the last six months I've come to think of us as a team, a dyad: Robin and I against the world. And Robin is about to turn twelve – the age I remember most fondly.
