I fully enjoyed Neflix’s Marvel’s Daredevil, season 2 (season 1 too, of course). I was:
- Surprised by the plot’s turns (very imaginative, but neither far-fetched or fancy; almost never anticipated them).
- Admired with the clever, patient way in which the screen writers have given evolving emotions to their character’s personalities —that both makes them credible and the psychology fine.
- Pleased with the cinematography, the scenery, and the fighting choreography.
- Astonished at how well attained an unexpected, subtle blend is between the comic book’s lines and stuff and those of ordinary life.
And great acting too.
The last six fiction books I’ve read, I’ve dropped them. Don’t think they’re bad —in fact, I think they might be good. In case you’re curious, here they are:
- BEHIND THE BEAUTIFUL FOREVERS, by Katherine Boo
- THE CUCKOO’S CALLING, by Robert Galbraith (aka J.K Rowling)
- THE CRIMSON PETAL AND THE WHITE, by Michel Faber
- MAÑANA EN LA BATALLA PIENSA EN MI, by Javier Marías
- CONFESSIONS, by Kanae Minato
- I, ETCETERA by Susan Sontag
All of them are widely acclaimed, but not my cup of tea —I’m afraid.
Something of very little importance happened a few days ago that anyhow showed how odd a thing friendship can be. We had invited our close friends to dinner at the house by the sea. I was supposed to drive later to the pizza house to fetch the food, and when I announced I was leaving someone said that someone should go along with me. I immediately refused, masquerading my reaction as politeness —no need for anyone to bother, you just sit back, wait and relax. The truth is I dreaded the fact of being alone in the car with any of them —and I insist, we’ve been friends for more than forty years now.
Not that I think that’s bad —nor good. Just implausible, shocking, uncanny. I wonder if there’s someone aside from my wife that I’d be perfectly at ease with them by my side in a car for a small ride to anywhere anytime.