With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?
Oscar Wilde
A Reprieve From Scotland: The Man Booker Dozen
Putting a pause in my Scotland Posts (I promise, I only have a couple more of those), the Man Booker Long List (or “Man Booker Dozen”) was announced last week. The Man Booker prize is given to the “best novel,” written in English and published in the U.K. (a semi recent change of the Rules…
Without a Sense of an Ending
The lie of regret and of life gone off the rails. What rails. The life is the rails. It is its own rails and it goes where it goes. It cuts its own path. My path took me here. Okay – I will admit it. I have been a mess the past month with way…
Lincoln in the Bardo
“Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now we must lose them.” In honor of the Man Booker Prize winner being announced yesterday, and also because I…
The Portrait of a [sometimes] Lady 