Through the dark labyrinth

In the last couple of posts I have written about my visits to Manchester and Middleton, four days in which my aching feet will testify that I walked an awful long way and saw a massive amount.

[This is the continuation of my journey back into my past that I began yesterday.]

It was Heraclitus who said, some two-and-a-half millennia ago, that you cannot step twice into the same river.

I don’t now remember when this was.

I can’t help feeling that the biographies which tell us most about the age in which their subjects lived, are those in which said subject stands somewhat askew to that age.

There are books you know about for ages, perhaps all your life, and without ever touching them you know they are not for you.

I finally read A Master of Djinn by P.

The sad fact is that I stopped listening to music when Maureen became ill.

There was a vogue, a few years back, for books with titles (or more likely subtitles) along the lines of: A History of the World in 100 Things.

… said John Craxton.

There is a moment in the latest Strange Horizons podcast in which my friend Duncan Lawie says: I read a Paul Kincaid review, about five years ago, of a book that I was really enjoying, and I read it when I was about the eighty per cent mark into the book,…

I have a feeling that I was lucky in when I entered this world.

For the last too many weeks, everything I’ve read seems to have been for research, for review, or for a book group, and I tend not to write about such reading here.

I seem to have been involved in awards almost as long as I have been involved with science fiction.