This is the Kol'tsevaya line:
I have wanted to visit Russia since forever, and I finally made it to Moscow with my two sisters this September! We were there for about a week and it was just so lovely and interesting. We had been told to check out the Metro, which is famous for its ornate stations, so we went on a mini-tour: we started off on the Kol'tsevaya circle line, which was built in the early 1950s and contains wonderful examples of Stalinist-era architecture, on a Sunday evening (to avoid the crowds), getting off at each station as we moved in an anti-clockwise direction around the circle [as there are 12 stations on this line, this took us several hours]. Later on in the week we also targeted a couple of other stations that we wanted to see.
This is the Kol'tsevaya line:
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At the moment I'm reading Brian Friel's 'Translations' and Patrick deWitt's 'The Sisters Brothers' simultaneously: the former is quite a slim volume and fits very nicely into my handbag, which is perfect for emergency book-reading (you know, when you're waiting for a friend and you don't want to look sad), while the latter is my preferred bedtime reading. They probably couldn't be more different in terms of writing style and subject matter, but I'm enjoying them both immensely!
Last Friday I attended a talk given by Kevin Taylor, a director at Cambridge University Press or CUP, which was part of the Open Cambridge festival. The talk was held in the Oriel Room of the Pitt Building on Trumpington Street, and was worth attending for the location alone - the Oriel Room is incredibly beautiful, with high ceilings and windows and a chandelier (I'm obsessed with chandeliers; I don't care what sort of a dive I end up living in, I WILL have a chandelier some day. A big massive one, that'll take over the entire house) and shelves filled with books, and it just reeks of history and literature (in the best possible way).
"Dreams fled away, this country bedroom, raw
With the touch of the dawn, wrapped in a minor peace, Hears through an open window the garden draw Long pitch black breaths, lay bare its apple trees, Ripe pear trees, brambles, windfall-sweetened soil, Exhale rough sweetness against the starry slates. Nearer the river sleeps St. John's, all toil Locked fast inside a dream with iron gates. Domestic Autumn, like an animal Long used to handling by those countrymen, Rubs her kind hide against the bedroom wall Sensing a fragrant child come back again - Not this half-tolerated consciousness That plants its grammar in her yielding weather But that unspeaking daughter, growing less Familiar where we fell asleep together. Wakeful moth wings blunder near a chair, Toss their light shell at the glass, and go To inhabit the living starlight. Stranded hair Stirs on still linen. It is as though The black breathing that billows her sleep, her name, Drugged under judgement, waned and - bearing daggers And balances - down the lampless darkness they came, Moving like women : Justice, Truth, such figures." |
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Really, it contains a little bit of everything, from a celebration of science and the English language to the joys of travel and the Shipping Forecast. The title ('Meanderings') is a fairly accurate description of its content: I write about different things as the mood takes me, but hopefully there's something in here for everyone... Categories
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