Back in cold rainy Swansea... but I managed to play frisbee on the beach again. It wasn't too windy and the sky was interesting. My friend Adele has a soft frisbee that rolls up into a cylinder and makes a strange gloopy noise when it's caught, like a flying jellyfish. Frisbee is a minor hobby of mine, reading is a major one. For some reason I don't seem to be getting quite the same kick out of reading as I used to. Probably a sign of age. When I was in my early twenties I was genuinely besotted by every new discovery: the act of reading seemed active rather than passive.
I still enjoy books but I rarely love them in the same way. Maybe I'm consuming too many. I average between 20 and 30 every year. I've recently been disappointed with many authors recommended to me. Jonathan Carroll wasn't as good as I'd hoped, nor was Richard Matheson. It has been more than two years since a book made me jump up, ruffling my hair (as Nabokov would have it). As for the next hair ruffler: it might well be Blaise Cendrars' Moravagine. Mind you, I've just had my hair cut very short and there's not much to ruffle.