This book is strangely compelling. I did not know who (Lady) Antonia Fraser was before this. I know very little about Pinter besides he’s allegedly great and great at pauses. (pause) A few days into reading it I said to Dustin, “I think Pinter is…British or something.” （＠´＿｀＠）
I still don’t know why I bought this, off the shelf at a used bookstore on Mercer (aptly named: Mercer Books), when I don’t really give two shits about the people in it. It’s a damn diary of Lady Antonia Fraser that sort of traces her relationship w. the big P from beginning to end. It’s mundane shit, too. Parties they went to, cricket games they played. But little fascinating bits like what Miriam Stoppard wore to opening night or that Harold recited Eliot when visiting his gravesite or that he worships Sam Beckett (who doesn’t?). Why read anything like this? In a way it’s obvious: it’s a way into how other people do life. Their daily frustrations, the way they think about their families, their homes, their career moves. To see how they make sense of all of it, and when they don’t bother trying.
It’s also unabashedly about their falling in love, and their relationship. And who doesn’t want to know about that, start to finish? Let’s map it on out.
I find it really calming — which is a really second-rate way to describe something: “calming.” It’s the same reason I like reading cookbooks cover to cover. It’s banal at times but predictable in its banality. It’s not trying to be anything else, and you figure you must glean something useful from it by the end of things. Which probably isn’t even true. :/ But Beckett cameos!
