Another month begins, and yet another progression of fast cars finishes its tourney for the year. Winter is icumen in. Sorry, that's too bloody obscure for nearly everyone: but maybe worthwhile musing upon. The Middle Ages produced some great lyrical poetry, of which perhaps the most famous example promised summer and the voices of cuckoos. I now shrink to the hearth as the nights draw in. And the cuckoos are back sunning themselves south of the Sahara, clever devils.
I have just started 'The English Patient', which concerns itself with the Libyan Desert, it appears. A work I ought to have consumed some years past, but one that I am determined to deal with now. Having time to read is one of life's greatest pleasures: having time to write consumes me with trepidation.
I'll be updating you soon on Ondaatje's merits -or otherwise - and meanwhile commend you to Ozymandias, Shelley's bountiful hymn to transience.
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
Tweet tweet, my lovelies!
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