I watch quite a bit of junk television, but I'm never tempted by the sort of book people call "a beach read." When I'm working hard at my own writing, especially, I am really picky. Maybe I'm afraid banal sentences are contagious.
In June I spent a few weeks in Ecuador, where my new novel is set. I came home with my head swimming, and now I'm trying hard to hammer out the last 100 pages of my book. So I'm not reading a lot except for memoirs and other books that pertain to my story.
One glimpse at Anton's eyes, and I fell in love. That's all it took. I knew him only by reputation; his eyes worked the rest — intrigued me, charmed me. Of course, I'm married, and he's, well, dead, so no tryst. Still, the eyes of Dr Anton Pavlovich Chekhov: concern, fatigue, compassion, and pain glimmer there.
One would hope to find such eyes on a doctor, as well as on a playwright and story writer.
To celebrate the summer of 2017, we are pleased to present an ongoing series of reading recommendations/reminiscences by Goose Lane authors past and present.
Today: Ian Weir (Will Starling)
The sale of souls to the devil seems to have shaped up as the dominant theme in my summer reading. This wasn’t exactly intentional, but here we seem to be.
Each summer I vow to read at least one or two of the books that are so classic that I’m humiliated to admit that I’ve never read them. Don’t ask me about War and Peace, okay? Maybe next summer.
On the face of it, the arts of painting and filmmaking should make for sterling cinematic pairings. Both are primarily visual mediums, after all, and film can be used to capture not only the finished product, but the actions that went into creation. It certainly should work better than, say, the craft of writing, a solitary art that offers little in the way of kinetic energy to translate to a moving picture.
Why, then, do so few movies accurately capture the craft of painting?