I've finished Suetonius' Twelve Caesars as translated by Robert Graves. It was fascinating, but a little tough at times because apparently all of the Caesars were cruel bastards. It made me feel quite ill to read about the things Caligula, Nero, and Galba did. Still, it was a good read because the language was almost conversational and not in the least dry. I liked the assessments of the physical qualities of each emperor.
Despite my fascination with ancient Rome I haven't seen Gladiators. I haven't got the stomach for three hours of violence and cruelty no matter how wonderful Russell Crowe is. My mind haunts me with horrifying images for weeks after violent movies, so I simply don't go see anything that purports to show realistic violence. And you wonder why I only see three or four movies a year!
Next up: nothing. I can't believe I'm out of books to read. I finished the third Kage Baker book (excellently written, but I'm beginning to think I am supposed to figure out what the big event in the 23rd century will be based on clues, and I can't work it out so I feel stupid) and Stephen Fry's autobiography (it was interesting, but he was a pretty despicable fellow in his adolescence) while I was in Japan. I have ordered a couple of things from Amazon so I could use a gift card, but they won't arrive for a week. I bought All Tomorrow's Parties by William Gibson (sf), The Mask of Ra by P. C. Doherty (mystery) and The Wysard by a pal from Nashville, Carolyn "Carrie" Kephart (fantasy). Normally you'd have to stand over me with a flaming torch to get me to read sword and sorcery, but Carrie has her PhD in English literature and is a smart cookie, so I'm hoping her book overcomes the usual slavish adherence to Tolkien story lines. Actually, I should have said William "Bill" Gibson if I'm going to hand out nicknames based on personal acquaintance since I knew him before he had three accountants and world acclaim, not that dozens of other science fiction fans from the Pacific Northwest couldn't say the same.
It's fun to discover you know celebrities. You claim a little of their glory via reflection: "I remember him/her when..." For myself, I always thought I wanted to be famous. When I was growing up that was my chief goal in life. I wanted everyone to see me on tv or at the movies and be hugely impressed by my talent and beauty. Boy, would they be sorry they made fun of me for being a dork. They'd swarm around begging my forgiveness, wanting an autograph, and so forth.
Note the caveat. I thought I wanted to be famous. I've had a taste of it (not associated with this diary), and I don't want that any more. Aside from the rather critical lack of genius and talent which would lead to fame and celebrity status I found I don't have the ego to bask in adulation from complete strangers in large quantities. Sure, I want my writing recognised and read, and it's great to get complimentary email, but I truly don't want the kind of public attention a very public success will bring. I am an enormous fan of celebrity magazines, yet at the same time I'm slightly appalled at how critical I am of the actors and singers I read about. They're not real to me, they're just cultural icons. I would hate to become so objectified.
Yeah, I know, I don't have a thing to worry about in that respect. I'm just pointing out fame isn't all it's cracked up to be.
So when tomorrow arrives and I'm all out of reading material I'm going to be very bored on my train ride. I wish I had a laptop. Those iBooks are awfully tempting, or would be if I had the money to buy one right now. I don't, because I'm saving for a sofa hideabed. That's what I want for my birthday in August. No Amazon.com lists for me any more. I'm not waiting for anyone to buy me cool stuff. I need a real sofa to lounge on, and lie down on at full length, and when I'm done with that I need it to fold out into a real bed so friends can stay with us in our tiny house. A laptop would be great, but no one can sleep on it. Well, except for a cat.
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