When addressing me, a small boy, he used the plural of the second person--not in the stiff way servants did, and not as my mother would do in moments of intense tenderness, when my temperature had gone up or I had lost a tiny train-passenger (as if the singular were too thin to bear the load of her love), but with the polite plainness of one man speaking to another whom he does not know well enough to use "thou."

link: Nabokov's Speak, Memory

"But I've always been logical, quite traditionally so, for example I put my least frequently worn clothing in the bottom drawer, which is the most uncomfortable to reach. And I had my office carpeted in pale blue because it is one of the few colors that are masculine and feminine at once. And when I first got Rema's number I purposely didn't enter it into my cell phone so as to keep myself from calling her too often. Instead I taped her number onto my refrigerator, which mean I could have lost it--it could have fallen, been swept away--but I knew the risk was an essential one and so, being rational, I took it"

link: Rivka Galchen's Atmospheric Disturbances
image: source

"Maybe I miss Deborah. If so, what do I miss? Her face? Her legs? Other things, too. She could sing. I'm a sucker for singing women. You should see my record collection. Almost exclusively singing women, from all over the world. Every major race is represented. I remember one night after a movie, driving home, the two of us, she started to sing a blues. 'Brother, can you space a dime...' Naturally, a money blues, but I wasn't listening to the theme. I drove slowly, hoping she wouldn't quit singing. I had gooseflesh. I think she didn't even know she was singing. You can love best what people have no idea about themselves."

link: Leonard Michaels' The Men's Club
image: source

A Year in Provence

One genre I enjoy reading (with a bit of guilt) is travel writing.  I really like discovering the details of daily life in a place from the point of view of someone who is new or newish to that place.  Details that are striking and interesting to a stranger or visitor might feel obvious or not-worthy-of-notice to someone living in a place their whole life.  It's interesting to compare daily rituals and habits, where and when people socialize, the markers of different parts of the day, how time is spent, and how people interact with their surroundings.

A year in Provence, by Peter Mayle, chronicles a British couple's first year in Provence, living in and trying to restore an old stone farmhouse set on the edge of a large national forest.

"At one end of the market, a van from the wine cooperative was surrounded by men rinsing their teeth thoughtfully in the new rosé.  Next to them, a woman was selling free-range eggs and live rabbits, and beyond her the tables were piled high with vegetables, small and fragrant bushes of basil, tubs of lavender honey, great green bottles of first pressing olive oil, trays of hot-house peaches, pots of black tapenade, flowers and herbs, jams and cheeses--everything looked so delicious in the early morning sun.
We bought red peppers to roast and big brown eggs and basil and peaches and goat's cheese and lettuce and pink-streaked onions.  And, when the basket could hold no more, we went across the road to buy half a yard of bread--the gros pain that makes such a tasty mop for any olive oil or vinaigrette sauce that is left on the plate. The bakery was crowded and noisy, and smelled of warm dough and the almonds that had gone into the morning's cakes."

The copy I have was previously in the library of Ann Hershey Byerly, as indicated by the large personalized embossed stamp.



The book is divided into chapters based on the months of the year with illustrations for each one. So far, I'm up to September.