:: This page is one of the most useful of all my bookmarked pages. Hõw mùch fün çàn ÿòû hävé wìth àççènts¿¡ The oñly oñe missiñg is for the Spañish ñ but I looked elsewhere for that. It reminds me that Phoebe should really be Phœbe, just as you see it printed in the books of lady Victorian novelists. I am not joking when I say that accents were one of the reasons I wanted to study modern foreign languages in the first place; I thought it was terribly exciting to know where to place a cedilla, an umlaut, a circumflex and an acute or grave accent on a word. (And before you ask whether I should have been getting out more as a teenager, the answer is no.)
:: The scent of hyacinths, no matter how beautiful a shade of lilac they are, sometimes become so overpowering that they have to be removed from a room. The same applies to lovely lilies that not only leave indelible mustard-yellow marks on your clothes when you brush past them, but also make me feel like I'm trapped in some kind of Wizard of Oz poppy field, so heavy and cloying is their perfume.
:: Farley Granger who died yesterday had a wonderful name, was strikingly handsome, and appeared in one of my all-time favourite (but chilling) films, Strangers on a Train. Very oddly, because no-one could have foreseen the timing, his other great Hitchcock film which is rarely ever shown, Rope, was on TV at the beginning of the week and I taped it. I've never seen it and now I must.
:: I am reading The Fountainhead partly to find out why so many millions of copies have been sold, and partly because it's about architecture (an unusual subject for novels) and follows on from Bricks and Mortar (although you probably couldn't find two more dissimilar architects than Howard Roark and Martin Lovell - even their names spell it out with 'roar' and 'love' giving them away). But mostly it's because I've long wanted to see the film version starring Gary Cooper but it's impossible to track down. Mind you, I've just looked on You Tube and found this and it's not quite how I imagined it. (Almost immediately, the book reminded me of the Soviet Socialist Realist novels I once studied - and then I found out that Ayn Rand is a child of the 1905 Russian Revolution.)
:: The first tulips are just beginning to open up. Time to get the scissors and vases out.