Sophocles once said that “whoever neglects the arts when he is young has lost the past and is dead to the future.”

If you ask me, a life without the arts is also dead to the present.

More and more lately, I have been noticing how very many nasty people seem to be out there. And I feel sorry for them. Because they seem unable to appreciate anything in their lives, save their own vitriol.

The more I think about it, the more I believe that if they had some kind of art to enrich their life, they would not only be more well-rounded, but far more pleasant to the rest of us.

And art can be anything:

Drawing and painting, dancing, composing, playing an instrument, writing, cooking, designing, pretty much any process where you’re creating something.

There is also the art of conversation, or being fashionable, or perhaps you’ve a knack with animals.

Loving others and decency can be arts too.

What I’m saying is that living your life can be an art form in itself, and that it’s possible to appreciate the beauty of pretty much anything.

There are lots of people who don’t see things that way.

I find that incomprehensibly sad.

Several weeks ago, I received a journal for my birthday. If you’re a writer, you know that someone is always going to gift you a journal. You also know that this is great because, hey, free paper!

This one was entirely blank though. I mean, no lines, dividers, nothing like that.

Since then, I’ve been pondering how in the world I am going to fill it up.

And I’ve finally realized:

I don’t need lines, or any other parameters to bring those pages to life.

They can just be filled with the beautiful things that make me, and hopefully others, happy.

Song lyrics, favorite poems, quotes, pictures, recipes, plans for writing projects…

Anything.

Any art.

Normally, I name my journals. And my car, and my desk, and my phone… you get the picture. My grandfather liked to name things too, so I send him copious thanks for this particular quirk. Because it’s fun.

This book though, just has one word scribbled on the first page:

“Essentials.”

 

Author: Neil Gaiman

Illustrator: Andy Kubert

Those of you who are familiar with Neil Gaiman’s work were probably as surprised as I was when I discovered that he partnered with Marvel to tell this story.

After all, The Sandman Series was put out by DC.

As far as I’m concerned, Sandman is the best comic ever. It manages to be a fabulous comic, a stunning work of art, and an epic tale.

Sandman redefined what comics could be. For once, people were really seeing that a comic could also be great literature. Gaiman continues this tradition in 1602 by turning the Marvel universe topsy-turvy.

1602 combines the stories of Virginia Dare, the first child born in the New World in the Roanoke Colony, the origins of the X-Men and their persecution by the Inquisition, and the capture of the Fantastic Four by Otto von Doom. Oh, and their subsequent rescue by Virginia, the X-Men, Daredevil, and Thor.

Sounds complicated, but this is Neil Gaiman we’re talking about.

It all comes together beautifully.

And if it took me far longer to realize the true identity of Virginia’s faithful guardian Rojhaz, well, that’s just part of the fun!

As to precisely how long…

That shall remain my own rather embarrassing secret.

And once again, no one is allowed to be happy.

At least not for long.

For those who have not yet seen the first couple episodes this season (there are apparently people who live in caves), this post will contain spoilers. So take heed.

Season four begins with the departure of Lady Grantham’s trouble-making maid, Miss O’Brien. She has absconded to India to work with Lady Flintshire (that’s Mrs. Shrimpy), which was set up in the season three Christmas Special.

It has been six months since the untimely death of Matthew Crawley, and Mary is still in the darkest depths of despair.

Her family, especially Branson, are trying their level best to bring her back to the land of the living.

Except for Lord Grantham, who has yet again decided to cling to “the way things used to be.” He is clearly hoping that Downton will once again be under his sole management and that he will be able to mold George, his infant grandson, in his own Edwardian image.

Branson, who is still in his role as steward, rather bravely defends the changes Matthew had begun, and is Mary’s greatest champion. We are all reminded that Branson is a feminist, and frankly I’m loving it.

Thanks to Matthew’s surprising but oh-so-legal will, Mary is his sole heiress and will now be a player in the running of the estate.

This, her love for her son, and the combined efforts of Carson and the Dowager Countess, spark Mary’s transition to life again.

Obviously her grief is still palpable, but she no longer sequesters herself in her rooms.

Edith has continued to see her editor, Michael, and he plans to divorce his wife so that he and Edith can marry.

He’s  going to great lengths to do so, and Edith sees it as a testament of his love for her.

Honestly, it bothers me how willing he is to cast his wife aside. Now, the situation is rather complicated, because Michael’s wife is in an asylum. She doesn’t even know who he is. It’s incredibly sad, and I don’t blame him for wanting to carry on with his life, but he seems completely fine with moving on and forgetting that his wife exists.

That just doesn’t sit well with me.

And I like Edith. She deserves a man who is better than that, especially in light of her rather unfortunate past romances.

I’m also not liking the Jimmy/Ivy stuff. We all know my shipping tendencies are usually doomed, but I also hold to them staunchly, and I am 100% Jimmy/Daisy. So let’s not even get into how I really feel about all this Ivy nonsense.

Speaking of things one would rather not elaborate on, this past Sunday’s episode was particularly upsetting.

Downton has never been shy about pursuing darker themes, but this is the worst thing that has ever happened on this show. Really. This story is horrid.

For readers who are easily upset, skip the next paragraph.

Anna was raped by a visiting valet in this week’s episode. The entire incident was juxtaposed against a beautiful rendition of “O mio babbino caro,” which only made the sequence more disturbing. The scene was well-acted and heartbreaking, but I had to look away because it made me sick. I suppose that was the point, but how horrible.

And that is all I wish to say on that matter, because it really is terribly upsetting.

Thankfully, we will have “Sherlock” back as well this coming Sunday.

After a two-year wait, this is certain to cheer us all up!

We’re going to see Sherlock finally reunite with John, and hopefully find out just how Sherlock survived.

Many happy returns, my fellow Sherlockians, because the game is back on.

Next time: The next book of my Great Reread: Neil Gaiman’s 1602.

TEST bookaddict