Yesterday I went to Truro. I watched an orchestra rehearse for their evening performance in the cathedral (which was sublime) and I got cross at the ‘Visitor Responses’ to the paintings in the Museum (which were ridiculous). For example, beneath Henry Scott Tuke’s marvellous depiction of boys out boating with a slightly older man sporting a moustache, there was some printed nonsense about Freddie Mercury and friends going for a dip. Why do some people think that art has to be demeaned in order to be appreciated?
That is, however, a huge digression. While I was on the train, I continued with Great Expectations. Pip has now arrived in London and has been reunited with Estella. In the past, I must admit, I have found Dickens’ elaborate description and habit of saying in twenty words that which could be magnificently expressed in three quite off-putting. It destroyed the narrative of Little Dorrit for me and made me skip through Hard Times. But I am not experiencing this annoyance at all at present. I loved Pip’s journey to see Wemmick’s ‘Aged’. It’s quite refreshing, actually, to have my previous negative views challenged. I have about a third of the book left to read and am looking forward to my next opportunity (more SATs marking to come first, though).