What an adventure! We’re ten days into this experiment.
It feels like having a permanent table at a sunny outdoor cafe in Paris (or Venice or Berkeley) where friends stop by to improvise in an endless conversation (until we all duck for cover with that unexpected downpour). Maybe that’s too Sartre. Maybe the blog has been more like a conversation with Thoreau on a walk. Except he mostly walked alone, and this has been very social from the start. Most writing is a lonely affair, but not this.
Thanks, all. I’ll take care of the tab. And see you tomorrow, rain or shine.
Grades are in, and starting to pack for another jaunt to the West Coast. My first at the American Literature Association. I’ll meet some Concord Saunterer folk in the City.
And since you asked . . . — For summer reading?
Two indispensable guides to grieving and raising the dead: The poet Anne Carson’s brilliant Nox — endlessly, movingly fascinating and sad, arresting for the writing and also for the so-physical presentation, like a scrap book or wedding book or funeral book by someone who knows how to feed the eye and the hand, as well as the more intellectual and affective parts of the soul.
Then a companion morsel: Richard Martin’s reissue of the luminous Lattimore translation of The Illiad.
And while I’m on this roll, for the ups and downs of the dead, check out Robert Pogue Harrison’s, The Dominion of the Dead. Culture as limbo, purgatory.