Aaaaaargh!

I think I’ve reached a limit. It may be only temporary, but I’ve reached it.

I have no more appetite - nay, no more tolerance - for ‘deep’, ‘serious’, psychological stuff, be it literature (you know, the ‘real literature’, i.e. not the much-maligned ‘genre’ lit), or theatre (postmodernist* stagings where actors shout a lot and have frequent emotional breakdowns and the story (if any) is just a backdrop for the desire to be different / original at all costs).

(* I should actually say ‘post-postmodernist’, since it’s been a while already since postmodernism reared its intrepid head).

Give me a real, heartfelt, intelligent story told in a heartfelt intelligent way (whether written or staged), a story that grabs me and takes me along in such a way that I don’t feel the hours go by.

It doesn’t have to be a comedy, but it has to be gentle and subtle, and make me stay with it, not wonder how long until the intermission/the end or until the next chapter.

Thank you.

Mood: house on fire, but all is fine

WIPs: a short translation of my own work, many posts on what I have read / watched so far (that is, since August last year, ha ha), journalling and a detailed recount of my adventure in New Zealand.

Stay tuned.

Veronica