Monday, August 1, 1983


My throat is still as sore as ever. I went to the doctor in Farnshaw this morning and he told me I either have tonsillitis or—if my throat is still as bad in a week—glandular fever. He gave me a prescription for antibiotics. I hope it’s not glandular fever, because that’s supposed to drag on for months.

Dad, Andrew and I watched New Zealand win the Test match by five wickets. I fell asleep in front of the TV and spent much of the afternoon oblivious. I felt better at teatime, and even my swallowing seemed easier and less painful, but now, in the evening, it feels sore again.

A few names from my past have been cropping up recently in the papers; Carol Lancaster is making a name for herself in tennis circles and has just finished her first year on a tennis scholarship at Plotinus University. Christine Wade is off to France for a year, and Mark Pittock got a scholarship to a University in Utah.

In the evening Andrew and I watched a programme about the music of Anton Webern, George Liggerty, Stockhausen and John Cage. I make no claims as to a personal understanding of it, but I’m fascinated by the atmosphere of this music. Andrew says atonal music always sounds unhappy and never carefree, but I wonder why people prefer melody and tonality? Is it because it’s soothing and less disturbing? Perhaps atonal music demands thought and effort and this repels people, pushing them back towards the ‘easier’ works of more ‘tonal’ composers?

“There is no pre-ordained correspondence between truth and happiness; between what is true and what is pleasing; the genuine inquirer must be indifferent to ‘peace of soul or happiness’; or at least must not seek them, for if these are the objectives, he must go aside from the path that leads to those truths that are ugly and repellent.”

No comments:

Google Analytics Alternative