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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.
I have been dreaming of tomatoes, of how to feed the properly, and when to water. I planted four this year: one cherry, and three slicers. Their names are Sungold, Ethiopian Prince, Gold Medal, and Italian Heirloom. They have suffered a little early blight, and my expectations remain low. The Costato Romanesco zucchini, with ribbed green skin, is producing well. The leaves are enormous, mini umbrellas, and the fruit literally seems to double in size overnight.
What can you do with a foot long zucchini? Four banana breads? Forty-eight muffins? And what about the two already in the fridge?
And the kale? Forests of green ruffles, getting bigger the more I pick.
Thank goodness I only planted one cucumber plant, although it too has surpassed its trellis. Not seeing much fruit though.
I call the vegetables fruit because they are the gift of the leaves. Nomenclature. Borage ought to be a verb, so gigantic does it get. The marigolds remain scrawny, but the sweet peas prolific. An hour in the garden, hand-watering, pulling weeds, and harvesting, and I am exhausted.
Next year I will try spinach. Less kale. Maybe beans. Garlic. Leeks.