Uncharitable thoughts. My love-hate affair with WordPress as a blog host is veering towards hate because the spacing regulator has gone awry and squeezes text up close and personal when I want an airy page with plenty of white space between paragraphs.
Is there life after Proust? I am completely ensnared. The multiplicity of Proust, the luminous sentences that go on forever.
“Thanks to art, instead of seeing one world only, our own, we see that world multiply itself and we have at our disposal as many worlds as there are original artists, worlds more different one from the other than those which revolve in infinite space, worlds which, centuries after the extinction of the fire from which their light first emanated, whether it is called Rembrandt or Vermeer, send us still each one its special radiance.”
The Great Dane is sitting in front of the gate waiting for someone, anyone, to come down the road. Nothing moves in the neighbourhood, the silence of noon holds the fields and ditches and trees in perfect stillness. Poor bored dog.
Things I can’t write about here preoccupy my mind. Thorny relationships. Drafts of writing that look unpublishable. The political murkiness in which I live. Injustice. Hardship. The despair of the poor, the homeless, the unloved. Violence lurking like a stranger behind the next corner.
Skewered through the heart, to quote Margaret Atwood: