Dinner is a source of happiness, and maybe television is as well. I was watching tv, eating a bowl of Rana cheese tortellini ( I had browned some butter for the sauce, sizzled garlic and cumin in it before sprinkling on nutmeg and Parmesan— for instant noodles, it was quite tasty) when I realized with clarity my contentment. It wasn’t the dish in my hand, or the program on the screen ( the last bit of the final Gardener’s World for the season, in which apple- heavy trees and the last of the dahlias crowded the garden I had been watching since the Spring, and through the Summer draught) but the realization that when I went to bed, it would be on fresh sheets I had made my bed with, along with a winter comforter. The season tipped towards November, and though the day proved t-shirt balmy, I was readying for the eventual cold. Soon, we would turn the clocks behind, and the frost would be commonplace on the car windows. Soon, the march towards the shortest day would begin, until the light returned to early mornings. I was ready for the seasonal shift.
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Because he has in front of him Borges, and before that Babel, and so many others. Because even with his physical self impaired, his brain has so much more work to do. Our world is a mess, and we need writers to act as witness, to cajole, to scold, to even prophesize.
Midnight’s Children was ground breaking. Haroun and the Sea of Stories enchanting. In between and after, so much vigor, humor, intelligence, and yes, peevishness, and linguistic acrobatics that could become tiresome until that sentence arrives that transports.
So much more to say, so much more to share.