Is a Kitkat a chocolate bar or a biscuit? This might not seem an important distinction but when you’re 7 miles in and the “chocolate bar” promised in the hotel packed lunch turns out to be a Kitkat, you can feel cruelly misled. These things matter, is all I’m saying.
Breakfast had been rather good, you see. I had Eggs Florentine and coffee, served in a grand salon with huge mirror panels with fancy glass lights on them and the kind of embossed, gold, fol-de-rol wallpaper which only makes sense in big public spaces like this. Jenny and I were tucked (more…)
Oh, I’d forgotten this—how a day, lived through this slowly, can have so much to give you; how hardly moving at all gives you the chance to register worlds, interior and exterior, so full of texture and difference and riches. Oh. Oh, how wonderful.
A tree falling in a forest. A book launched during a pandemic. Does either of them make any sound?
Let go. Relinquish. Release, surrender, give up.
Of course, Keats didn’t live in the age of the halogen bulb. If he had, things might have been different.*