Train life, I decided, takes some beating. At some point in the morning, generally when you have gone for breakfast, your bed vanishes magically into the wall, and in the evening just as magically reappears, crisply made with fresh sheets. Three times a day you are called to the dining car, where you are presented with a thoroughly commendable meal by friendly and obliging staff. In between times there is nothing to do but sit and read, watch the endlessly unfurling scenery or chat with your neighbour. Trevor, because he was young and full of life and unaccountably had failed to bring any of my books to make the hours fly, felt restless and cooped up, but I wallowed in every undemanding minute of it.
[...] If this sounds like a living death, don’t be misled. I was having the time of my life. There is something wonderfully lulling about being stuck for long spell on a train. It was like being given a preview of what it will be like to be in your eighties. All those things eighty-year-olds appear to enjoy — staring vacantly out of windows, dozing in a chair, boring the pants off anyone foolish enough to sit beside them — took on a special treasured meaning for me. This was the life!
Bill Bryson · Down Under
I don’t know what to make of Bryson. If you ask people how they would spend their time if they did not have to earn a living, travel is one of the most popular answers. And Bryson is one of the most popular travel writers. So his idea of good travelling must be what many people consider the Good Life. That makes Bryson a significant writer.
What is Bryson’s idea of the good life? To be free of responsibility, looked after by other people and gently entertained. A living death — or dinner in front of the TV? Or do I admire Bryson’s candour?
There is no escape from language, warns Jacques Derrida. Similarly there is no escape from the crowd. Had I any notions there was something original in my discovery of the delights of Genoa last month, or contemplating the Festival au Désert in Mali next winter, finding articles about both in today’s Daily Telegraph magazine should have cured me of them.
I like roots, but a person needs repotting now and then.
novelist Celia Brayfield in Saga Magazine April 2003
Been whingeing for years that everywhere I go to dance the music is so loud it kills speech and isolates everyone. (Hubble Bubble is a notable exception.) I heard tonight on Late Junction about the Barefoot Boogie. Unbelievably, it takes place every Saturday within walking distance of my home. This Saturday I'll be out of town; then the event breaks for the summer. Expect more about this in the autumn.