Last night Lee and I watched a TV programme about the films of Bunuel. From Spain sprang Bunuel, Picasso, Dali . . . Apart from Roland Penrose, England could only muster a half-hearted response to Dada and the Surrealists. English art seems sedate in comparison. Perhaps stability of habits and customs and a lack of wartime turmoil as occurred in Germany and Spain in the '20s and '30s gives English art a complacent air.
I‘ve been reading poetry by Stevens and Williams but my heart hasn’t been in it. Sadly enough I can’t summon up the necessary motivation to concentrate.
In the last two weeks I’ve spent £11. We went down to the pub at ten and had a few games of Mad Planets, the latest video game we’re all very much into. The pub was packed with rockabillies who jived inexpertly between the tables to the sounds of “Rockin’ Bill,” a middle-aged DJ, who left his youth behind in the ‘fifties along with all his records.
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