One of my favourite diarists is Florida Scott Maxwell (1883-1979). She was an actress, a wife and a playwright while she was married, and then a Jungian analyst. She kept a diary in - I think, her 82nd year - and I read it when I was reading for my book on women’s diaries, and quoted her (with permission from her niece, who didn’t charge me.) I was way short of her age then but now I’m older than she was. Today was a busy day with too much going on (in my head), and I thought of her. After something that had her wrought up and fussing she chided herself:

“I’m too old for moral fervour.”

Me too.

Here’s the age card: I did too much today, too much, I guess, because I’m 85 years old, for goodness’ sake. Enough is enough. But when is it enough? Well, I just did ordinary things, not pushing my body through time and space, just at home, but I worked through my partner’s notes on my screenplay, and there’s some rethinking and some tact to be involved there. I went to my physio (traction, still recovering from the side effects of my leg wound), and I picked up some American money for my trip to Boston/Quincy later this week, and I stopped at a favourite bookstore and found that book I wrote about last week, that I thought I would wait until I could afford to buy. Well, it’s in paperback, and offered at a discount, and I have a loyalty perk. How could I resist?

I won’t go into any more of my day (a bit of shopping, a guest for dinner, the Blue Jays game - and wow to that!). The Big News is the Book; Landmarks, by Robert Macfarlane. It’s even better than I thought it would be. Oh, my, it is a joy and a treasure and a wonder! Landscape and language, presented with joy and passion and wit - oh, and erudition. There are twelve glossaries, one of which (the eleventh) is blank for the reader (me) to begin her own collection.

Was ever an old woman so blessed?

I’ll try not to stay up all night.

I missed another-blog-day because I had another full day at Stratford; The Hypochondriac aka Le Malade Imaginaire by Molière (1622-1673). By my count it’s the fourth time in Stratford’s history that this play was produced. I think I saw two of the previous three but there were many things I don’t remember plus many things that weren’t in the other shows because of the new adaptation by British playwright (and one-time stand-up comedian), Richard Bean, perhaps known to National Theatre Tv-screen viewers for One Man, Two Guvners. I enjoyed lots of things, including delightful staged romps by, according to the program, “Members of La Troupe de Molière”, 15 performers plus a juggler (Doug DeForrest), choreographed by Stephen Cora, the entire charming production directed by Antoni Cimolino.

Molière called his later plays comédies-ballets as they involved actors and dancers in performances that were integral or at least related to the plots. (Louis XIV liked musicals.) So what we were treated to was not a departure from tradition but Stratford’s own extravagant spin. I was surprised by the ending of the show, not in the original script (I reread it) but not unprecedented, and not original to Richard Bean. John Wood (b. 1900, haven’t found his death date) translated many of Moliere’s plays and he added a credible if dramatically tragic conclusion to The Hypochondriac, used by Richard Bean. It’s not a huge reach. Molière suffered from pulmonary tuberculosis and was very ill. He gave a realistic portrayal of Argan, the imaginary invalid, and, in fact, collapsed in the fourth show and died shortly thereafter. So- it’s a spoiler if you haven’t guessed the realistic conclusion of the play. It’s well handled at Stratford and takes nothing away from the feel-good enjoyment of the production. I had a lovely afternoon.

But I’m still tired so that’s all I’m going to say about that. I’m a blogger not a reviewer. Oh, but I should mention Brigit Wilson who plays Toinette, the in-your-face maidservant who mocks Argan. She is charming, brash, daring and funny and earned her stand-up ovation every bit as much as Stephen Ouimette (Argan). She also happens to be Antoni Cimolino’s wife. Cheers.

Now to bed.