Ain't half been some clever bar stewards

I nipped out at lunchtime, and, in spite of myself, ended up in a bookshop.  I lied that I'd have a fruit-based browse only, and not succumb to the temptation to have a half.  Ten minutes later I found myself the proud owner of The Richard Burton diaries, which runs to about 1500 pages.  It's like a 'phone book, despite being in paperback.  I don't like toting hefty tomes like this - they provoke sciatica - but I read the first couple of entries and simply had to have it.  The writing is so very elegant.

Allied to his gifts as a writer, Burton live the single most glamorous life imaginable.  When not gadding about the fleshpots of Europe and American, drinking, smoking and rutting like a Viking grandee, he would retire to the beautiful, rangy library of his Swiss home and read and write.  He was a learned and thoughtful man, RB.  He didn't bury his working-class Welsh roots too deeply, but he was a philosopher-prince when left to his own devices.  This is evident even in his childhood diary entries.  He esteemed all learning, and literature in particular.

He must have been a wilful and courageous boy to have gone against the cultural grain like this.  I dare say his interest in letters and acting attracted plenty of violent derision.  It must have taken plenty of resolve to stick it out.  I wish I'd had such a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life at that tender age.  It simplifies so much.

Actually, I still haven't worked what I'm doing with my life.