'Tis true. I am here drinking a Kingfisher on Marine Drive at some ungodly hour after a damn long time on a plane. Far from the Malabar Caves in body, but not in spirit. I've been thinking lately about Homebody/Kabul that Tony Kushner piece that has the killer opening monologue before utterly falling apart in the second and third act....now, with A Passage to India on my mind it's there again, that Kushner, bubbling underneath my surface. And, too, it's along the lines of Wally Shawn - The Fever, definitely. What is that slighly masochistic, slightly adventurous, drenched in humanity commonality between those three characters. Our homebody. Our Adele. Our first-person narrator in a hotel room. Trying to explain it makes me think of a Martin Amis blurb on the back of Nabokav's Ada - it goes a little something like this - If I could sum it up there'd be no need for the text.
By the way - check out this cool Polish movie poster for the above referenced film. Says alot more than Judy Davis face, no? Though I like that face....
