[A post begun last night, and finished this afternoon...]
The lovely spring weather continues apace here - so much so that I walked to my salon appointment (a little over four miles round trip) and wished I hadn't worn a heavy sweater. The walk is quite beautiful - it takes me past Halifax's Armory and Common (where people camped in tents after the 1917 Explosion destroyed their homes, and where they were hit by the brutal blizzard that followed that calamity) before leading me across the highest point in town, the star-shaped Citadel fortress (the most visited historic site in Canada), and along the border of the Public Gardens.
But I awoke this morning feeling an exhaustion disproportionate to the amount of sleep I had gotten. I wouldn't swear to it, but it may also be possible that a family of elephants had taken up squishy residence in my sinuses in the early hours of the morning. By the time I was about an hour into my time in foils at the salon, I had a screeching headache. And now, come evening, I am running a low fever and feeling utterly discombobulated.
So there is nothing to do to soothe my fevered brow but to contemplate the books that followed me home this week (via mail, or having hopped into my hands at the bookstore):
Within these jars and casksI keep French and German moonlight [...]Here in these flasksLie the coughs of Emily Brontë,The urine of John Donne,And Jane Austen's caul.Here is Queen Anne's seventh childPickled in liquor...
You beautiful, broke-back horse of my heart. Proud,debonair, not quite there
in the head. You currentwith no river in sight.
- Ovid's Metamorphoses
- Rose Tremain's The Colour (which Wendy recently brought back to my attention)
- Ian McEwan's Saturday
- Dickens's Our Mutual Friend (which I should have finished back in college - sorry, spirit of the late Professor K. I think of you every time I see it on my shelf.)
- The Lover by Marguerite Duras
- A Pale View of Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro
- Borges's Labyrinths
- Possession by A.S. Byatt
- Mario Puzo's The Godfather