Having a "weak constitution" and a tendency towards sickliness makes me feel Victorian and Alice Jamesy sometimes: I could get a lot of mileage out of a fainting couch, a high-necked black lace dress, and a reticule for covert, Freudian fondling. I have this occasional wish-image of myself as a robust and apple-cheeked mountain climber hurtling up the the Matterhorn, drinking mountain spring water and bivouacking under a million stars, but it is, alas, a total fiction. The good thing about being sick it is I get to eat chocolate pudding, stay in bed (it's raining anyway) and read books about sickly, swooning (or murdered) ladies (Hotel Splendid and Candy Store by Marie Redonnet) and watch movies about sickly, swooning (or murdered) ladies (From the Life of the Marionettes and The Silence by Ingmar Bergman). All four of which were marvellous, creepy and unnerving in the perfect way. Thank you Paul for sending the Bergman, it was the perfect thing.

LINK | 1:23 AM | TB

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