Seeking New Worlds

Finished reading Frye's Anatomy of Literature earlier this week and Kate Summerscale's The Suspicions of Mr Whicher this morning. Both were rewarding in their different ways, so much so that I found myself protracting my reading of each beyond what was strictly necessary - though I finished the real life tale of the Road Hill murder in quite a rush today, carried away by the stories of William and Constance Kent in the years after the murder of their little brother. For what it's worth, Ms Summerscale's 'solution' seems to me wholly satisfactory in the necessary way of such solutions.

Just at this moment I wish I had a good murder on the shelves to move onto, inspired, I suppose, by the various telling points made about the classic detective story in The Suspicions of Mr Whicher. But recent successes in the War on Capitalism have seen me walk out of various bookstores heroically empty-handed. Thus I find myself without an obvious candidate for a fictional world to escape into. It looks like I'll be turning to a bit of Shakespeare, I'm thinking of The Tempest which has lodged in my mind since seeing it last month. That should more than fill the gap for a day or so.