. . . just insanely busy with summer projects at work.
M has gone to visit N for a week or two, leaving us in a dry run for our new empty-nested life.
I keep wondering where she is, then remembering.
Garden looks great — plans to make a new bed or so, which should hold cutting flowers and vegetables.
I reread the Possessed, and liked it as much as I had the first time. What I like is what I’ve always liked — she looks back and makes sense of her life like you make sense of a piece of literature. For some reason, it seems like such a necessary thing to do — that I feel this way is perhaps odd.
I’m now in Mountolive, the third of the Alexandria Quartet. Delicious. These can only be read in the summer, I think. Anyway — it seems to me that you read Justine, and it’s good, and then you read Balthazar, and realize that you had no idea what was going on at all, an impression which becomes even clearer as you read Mountolive. It’s like Rashomon — in Egypt.
Have you read about the Russian spies? The most hysterical thing to me is this quote from the New York Times, which is not quite right because the exact version of the article that I read in paper is not available online: Speaking about the spy named Mrs. Murphy (yes, Mrs. Murphy), a neighbor, Mrs. Cipprio, says: “They couldn’t have been spies. Look what she did with the hydrangeas!”