Monty Python and Fawlty Towers fame.
Said husband seldom reads books, perhaps one a year at most, perhaps one every second year. He doesn't plan to read this one until lolling at Lava Hot Springs for a week during our next road trip.
I, therefore, being out of new reading material myself, and the library being closed due to New Year's Day, am reading Cleese's autobiography.
I'm reading it despite never being a Monty Python fan, and also despite taking years to become willing to watch Fawlty Towers. (I was a few paragraphs into this writing before realizing I didn't know how to spell Fawlty.)
But enough about me, and back to the book: I got all the way to page 11 before I found a typo, so that's a good sign, and I've now finished the first chapter without finding another. However, the real news is that I'm enjoying it because the man can really write.
I recently re-read a number of book reviews by Dorothy Parker. If you haven't read any of those, please do. She could write better than I can, and, I daresay, better than John Cleese, and she did so in the 1920s.
But I digress. I have a long list of things to do in order to ready myself and my house for the new year, but I suspect I'll be more inclined to read the Cleese book than to clean the stove or sort all my old clothes.
Yes, I know the book hasn't received rave reviews, but it is an autobiography of the man, not of the Monty Python group, nor of the Fawlty Towers show, but of the man as he sees himself from the inside. (And, dear reader, please count how many times I used the word 'of' in the previous sentence, because I don't know how many.)
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I am linking this, although it is not a poem, to Susie Clevenger's challenge for the first day of the New Year, in which she asks us to choose one of the quotations she has provided for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.
"I think in terms of the day's resolutions, not the years." Henry Moore