now it is something to be sharing the same passion in reading books, but it is something else altogether when he starts to suddenly pick up The Bell Jar and hands it to you, the morning after you just happen to read the first fifty pages of Plath’s diary, and then start to recite Blake’s poem from memory, going tiger tiger burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry, and then starts to explain the poem to you, and then goes on and on about Shakespeare and English and then Australian ballads of poetry and work and writing and the theatrical broad daylight.
of course, he just happens to be an 82 year old man who also happens to read Sylvia Plath.
of course i returned home today bringing yet five, FIVE, books, for free. score of the day would be Pessoa’s Selected Poems, but i haven’t even vaguely started his book of disquiet…. so bringing home more books brings more guilt than pleasure.
also, i think i am beginning to love, cycling at night. it’s so calm. and i can see the moon directly infront of me. now, i need to oil the chains, because it squeaks horribly, more audibly in solitary roads….
perkaraperkara 