11.06.2006
29 hours in hyde park
Visiting baby's American aunt at the University of Chicago this past weekend I was reminded of many important things. Among them:
1. napping is great, and cannot be overestimated as a recreational activity. Co-napping=even better, if you find the right partner.
2. used-book stores are much better in college towns (or neighborhoods) than in sterile capital cities.
3. you need club soda to make a proper mojito.
At one of the aforementioned bookstores I came across a book of short stories ($5, hardcover!) by Sylvia Townsend Warner, who I had sort of forgotten about even after reading her remarkable first novel from the 1920s, Lolly Willowes. My stepmother had loaned it to me with some other books and I chose to read it first because the cover was wonderfully strange--a bold yellow, with black silhouettes of witches all a-broom. While I have terrible recall for the plots of novels, I seem to remember that this one was lovely and normal until about halfway through when, with a shock, it got quietly trippy and even more wonderful. The short stories--all or most of which appeared first in the New Yorker--are yummy, too, and I fear I will speed through them too fast and be left to myself once again.
In other news, and against all reason, the plants I brought inside for the winter are flourishing, and the petunia (which I grew from seeds!) has bloomed again. Baby loves to be picked up and brought over to the tray of little pots ("gah! gah!") and then we must count each flower and explain about the herbs, sometimes two or three times over.
1. napping is great, and cannot be overestimated as a recreational activity. Co-napping=even better, if you find the right partner.
2. used-book stores are much better in college towns (or neighborhoods) than in sterile capital cities.
3. you need club soda to make a proper mojito.
At one of the aforementioned bookstores I came across a book of short stories ($5, hardcover!) by Sylvia Townsend Warner, who I had sort of forgotten about even after reading her remarkable first novel from the 1920s, Lolly Willowes. My stepmother had loaned it to me with some other books and I chose to read it first because the cover was wonderfully strange--a bold yellow, with black silhouettes of witches all a-broom. While I have terrible recall for the plots of novels, I seem to remember that this one was lovely and normal until about halfway through when, with a shock, it got quietly trippy and even more wonderful. The short stories--all or most of which appeared first in the New Yorker--are yummy, too, and I fear I will speed through them too fast and be left to myself once again.
In other news, and against all reason, the plants I brought inside for the winter are flourishing, and the petunia (which I grew from seeds!) has bloomed again. Baby loves to be picked up and brought over to the tray of little pots ("gah! gah!") and then we must count each flower and explain about the herbs, sometimes two or three times over.
