Sunday, Sunday

What a beautiful weekend.  It seems almost as though August and September have switched places, and the heat and humidity of late summer is now the mark of fall, and a sign of August’s disappointment left behind.

Would that my father hadn’t closed the pool.

I’m having an enjoyable time, having finally found some Alexandre Dumas that I enjoy, after the recommendation of an old boss (whom I don’t particularly care for, but whose classic sensibilities stem from her Russian roots).

I wasn’t overly enthused by Othon L’Archer, but perhaps something was lost in my reading (I read French passably, and could find no translation).  Captain Paul was okay.  I enjoyed the early parts of Acte Of Corinth, because I love a good Roman tale, and it reminded me of Game Of Thrones in its plotting and scheming around Nero and Agrippina (which ironically, coincided nicely with a very early episode of Doctor Who, in his first incarnation, dealing with Nero simultaneously).

The Fencing Master has my interest however, greatly.  Historical dramas are always interesting, but this feels less like Dumas and his flowery prose and more like Pushkin or someone like that.  Perhaps that’s where they learned it.

Perhaps it’s just Russia that brings out the desire to wax poetic in the dark recesses of the snow and the noonday moon.

In either case, it’s made for a relaxing, enjoyable and stimulating read, which is more than I can say for previous attempts to read the French favourite.

Now, just to see how it ends.

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