What a joy is a middle of night rising: this time, I had some of that cloudy sake and those seaweed thinner than thin crunchy wafers -- these with brown sugar taste -- that melt instantly on your tongue, like the Japanese flowers that blossom instantly in the water. Very Proust. Trying to translate Yves Bonnefoy's writing on his wander through the Louvre in something of his style --how I wish I could. Having tried over the years with various of his superbly elusive poems and writings on art, this time I'd like it to work.
Of course, life keeps seeping in: recommendations here and there, readings of chapters in dissertations, reviewing books you think should be noticed, or swatting through a book you were excited about, and then it got long. Alas, this happened with How to Live, the one about Montaigne, wonderfully conceived, but exuding length, and most recently, with A Man of Misconceptions, about the incredible Athanasius Kircher. Incredible he was, but it doesn't have the holding power that we all wish our writings and musings would have.. A feeble wish, but a real one.
