Whimsical Musings of a Loon

I often say sometimes I love a song so much it's probably illegal, and very often I love a book so much it makes my heart want to crumple into pieces so devastatingly, I feel I might cease to be. Of course the melodramatic in me often gets carried away, but the overall sentiment is true. The Talented Mr Ripley is such a book that has that kind of beautiful effect of satisfaction, a bit like wolfing down a chocolate bar when you have not eaten all day; a delight and warming satisfaction rolled into one. Written by Patricia Highsmith in 1955, The Talented Mr Ripley was the first Highsmith novel to feature Tom Ripley, a troubled protagonist Highsmith would go on to write five novels about. A psychological crime thriller, Highsmith writes the book from the perspective of Ripley, a struggling sociopath; a New York misfit small-time con-man, whom aspires to so much more than his dreary existence. From the dirty, mundane streets of New York city, Highsmith takes the reader to the slee...

Music and poetry is a potent combination. Like music and images, they are entangled together in forms of exuberant brain-pleasuring or indeed heart-wrenching experiences that seem to make life just that little bit more purposeful. When I was growing up, my parents used to play us a vinyl 45 of this elderly gentleman reciting his poetry to music; crackling clicks of the record against the slightly eccentric English whimsical tones, set against clarinets and bands that sounded like something out of Wind of the Willows . There was a resonance with The Beatles' Yellow Submarine-type of pieces. Whatever the comparisons, it was bizarre. Utterly strange. And yet also rather alluring and admittedly, catchy. The 45 my parents enjoyed playing us so much was the single release of "A Shropshire Lad ", by John Betjeman. Already a fan of his poetry, this particular poem (and single) was all about the place where my mother grew up, somewhere that rarely got any kind of limelight. For m...

The Guardian featured a recent article on graphic novels , which immediately caught my eye. What particularly interested me was the writer's admission that for years, 'picture books', were to her, just read by nerdy men. In a lot of ways, something there resonated. However, I grew up with graphic novels, mostly in the form of Asterix, but more importantly, the work of the legendary Posy Simmonds . I did not realise it at the time, but they were helping to shape my humour, as well as beginning to hone my observational skills. As a child, I thought in pictures. I lived in pictures. I drew things daily. I played out my drawings, creating characters with costumes and accents. The world was a giant, living, colourful graphic. Then I suddenly stopped reading graphic novels. Perhaps it was a time I was discovering Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen. I became entangled amongst Chekhov and Harold Pinter. I wanted the word. I dreamt pretentiously of acting. I also became obsessed with fil...