You can knit a sweater by the fireside ...

Sunday mornings, go for a ride.

This was the first (and the last) post I wrote on my old literature blog. I found it so difficult to write about literature, about books, about songs, for I didn't want it to become a lecture, but I also didn't want it to be just my opinion. I decided that on this blog, I would give it another try, starting the new with the old.



The first literature post on this blog must start with instant literary happiness, of the kind that can only be brought by the Beatles. When I feel sad, for instance when I think about the chances of getting a job for graduates in the Netherlands (and in many places in Europe), I can put on a Beatles song and it seems as though for a moment, everything is much better. I will, in time, find a job in a library (just like the one Matilda visits in her Roald Dahl book) or a museum or a book store and work with kind colleagues, or perhaps be a writer, or start a bed and breakfast with a vegetable patch and chickens in the garden, or make a dream come true and start my own design shop, in which I can sell the things I make. I like thinking that way, and I believe the Beatles must have thought that way, for them being able to evolve and adapt so many different styles and moods. I'm not always able to think this way, sometimes a slight panic enters and I think, what am I doing with my life? Studying one of the subjects least likely to ever get you employed. No job, no house, no bed and breakfast, no shop. But then I listen to the Beatles and the panic goes (almost) as quickly as it came, and I think, yes, why shouldn't I be a paperback writer? And while at it, I will find a sweet husband and we will do the garden together, digging for weeds, as the chickens come looking for any worms that might come up.

When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oooo
You'll be older too, (ah ah ah ah ah)
And if you say the word,
I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride.

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck, and Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line,
Stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, Wasting Away.

Give me your answer, fill in a form
Be mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

If you happen to stumble into this post, please do leave your thoughts.

(Update: I have a job as a secretary now, for which I am very grateful, but I am still dreaming. This blog, however, is a good start).