Monday, 8 July 2013

This Landes is my Landes.

I was right when I suggested that the cycle paths around Vieux Boucau were old railway lines and that the Vieux Boucau station is still standing next to them.

As it is today.

As of old.
 
And further north along the same cycle track we passed yesterday the old station of Messanges.
 
 

Cycled 5 miles this morning in the other direction to the small town of Soustons to discover whether the local butcher had anything of interest for tonight's dinner. He did.

On the way to Soustons
Had a look at the local market.



Green cheese for sale.

Then went for a coffee and a read at a local café.


Reverted to Iris Murdoch on Sartre; she is an excellent prose stylist, I must say. Towards the end of the chapter on picturing consciousness she sums matters up like this: "Sartre, like Freud, sees life as an egocentric drama; 'the world is my world' in that it is shaped by my values, projects and possibilities." p 96.
 
I was once berated by my tennis doubles partner for purportedly loving France when I could speak hardly a word of  French. "It's simply not possible to know a nation without knowing its language," he opined.
 
Although slightly stung by this chiding, I knew he was wrong. I can love France in anyway I want to. France, as it is to me, is shaped by my values, projects and possibilities.
 
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Currently listening to:
 
 
 I always think of my parents when I listen to the Psalms of an Anglican choral evensong.

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Last night's dinner:

Rabbit chasseur and rice
Cost per head plus slightly more expensive wine: £8.50

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Finished reading:


My review: Like the sequel "Vanished Years" there are breath-taking passages of prose in this book. This is especially so when he writes about his childhood and anything to do with his parents. Also, his descriptions of place are without equal.

But there is very little analysis in either book and the descriptions of his life with his boyfriends read like an article from Hello magazine - not that I have ever read Hello magazine!

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