Tuesday, 6 January 2009

Dear Reader


I have been scribbling every morning now for a week, for a readership of exactly three, by my best estimation.  If there be any other silent readers lurking out there, please leave me a note. It is a wonderful encouragement to write for others, for with only one exception I have never kept a diary or journal more than a couple of days spread out over years and decades. How time has flown! But knowing you are awaiting my next installment gets me out of my warm bed in the morning and into a writing humour. You have helped me to recover memories that threaten to fade into the paper white nothingness of old age, and revisit loved ones lost long ago. How I miss them! 
But we have a long way to travel yet, so I beg your patience and understanding. We are barely into chapter three in my outline, for I have yet to write the first two and have made no mention yet of the Librairie Osbourne, Uncle Adraste's bookshop, his tales as a book smuggler, forger and mason, or the story of my poor parents. 
I will be grateful if you would guide me as I discourse: 'a little more like this, less of that nonsense please!' for each day's trifle is freshly mix'd and unedited, and I would rather prepare it to your tastes than subject you to my compulsive logorrhea. If with your kind help I succeed in patching together a coherent account of my past, I will subject the whole to a careful wringing out and refitting, so that you do not have to read it in so backward a fashion.
I find my memory is faulty: Monsieur and Madame Riccoboni retired in 1729 and travelled to Italy with their son (the son being the M. Riccoboni in my tale), though wife and son returned to the Paris stage in 1732. Therefore they could not have directed the first performance of La Sylphide, written by M. Biancolelli, as I am about to relate. It may be that my first visit to the Theatre Italien was in 1729, but did not make an impression on me until I saw a performance in 1730. If my recollection unclouds I may rewrite here and there, but perhaps the past is a shifting landscape seen through a rippled glass best left to historians to argue over.
It is a treat to have you along for the journey. 

3 comments:

Osprey said...

I'd like to read more about your parents and the tragedy that made it necessary for your uncle to take your well-being upon himself.

hba said...

In my limited experience of blogs, more people than comment read them - even asking for a roll call leaves many silent.

Write for you and no one else - and that goes for what you write too. Write for you and those who like what you write will find it :)

Oh, and I'd like to know more about The Devil, but that is because I'm nosy... xx

p.s. I started a seried of posts a few weeks ago about my friends blogs or blogs I enjoy. Yours will be next!

Young Geoffrion said...

My unhappy parents and the Devil my spouse: I am dreading the task, but that shall follow once I have girt myself in the armour of happier recollection.

HBA: thank you for your advice, I shall certainly heed it, though it is a modern indulgence. Dumas, Dickens and Balzac wrote serially and were sharply aware of their audiences' response to each episode. Our performances on stage were fine-tuned before spectators. Only the modern contemporary artist seems to confuse listening and pandering to his public.

I promise not to pander, but I hold your opinion, and the opportunity to receive it, in much higher regard than to ignore it. You shall have your Devil, though you may yet regret it, as I have.