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I hope it's great, but I won't be watching it. One of my favourite books, by one of my favourite authors.
The 1950's film was a decent effort, but the book's joy is not just the story but the sheer poetry, the dance, the hop, the joy, the drop, the fear, the woe, the hope of Steinbeck's writing.
And the hope again. And again. The hope.
That can't be done in a couple of hours.
I hope it's great. But I urge you all to read the book. Slowly.
I tuned into the Barca-Real game on Sunday and that smug latchico Guillem Balague was blathering on in his smug I-know-more-than-you-do smuggy-drawl (of course you do, it's your job!) about the number of private planes he knows are booked to go from Barcelona to the awards ceremony.
Jesus. Private planes. Awards ceremony. In the middle of a season.
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