Blank Doll grouses.

In a fit of anger yesterday night, I whipped out my pencil and a piece of paper and began to sketch out my top shelf in perspective. I refuse to believe that a person of my calibre and learning cannot self-teach myself to draw. If I can self-teach myself the croquis and figure drawing, I can bloody draw a line of parallel trees.

Explained to my sister why art and science were the twin pillars upon which civilisation is built. I know this is a little presumptuous because a person of my level of learning cannot possibly grasp the significance of the idea of civilisation. In the best pedagogical fashion, I suppose bequeathing what little I know to my sister so that she may venture forth prepared in the least. Just as well that my sister at the tender age of 12 knows about the Gutenberg press and stuff like that instead of being preoccupied with- I have no idea what twelve year-olds are preoccupied with today but I remember an embarrassing obsession with digimons.

This brings me all back to the notion of truth. I don't think I can grapple with that idea without a headache and having exhausted what mental faculties I have on revising Heart of Darkness, I don't think I want to try. What fascinates me is this general consensus among different authors that I have read about the truth. It appears that far from some perfection, the truth is terrible. The truth is no shining light at the end of the road, no signpost to some divine firmanent, but is in its concrete certainty, terrible.

Ouch.

I have also eaten two mincepies thus far (Christmas is around the corner when M&S starts selling mincepies) and my calorie intake today is still below the daily recommended amount. I love my restraint.

C'est tout.