Here I am, mere hours after Labor Day ended, and full of fascinating stuff to post. Actually I can't think of much. The bloom is really off the blogging rose. It's not like the heady days of 2006, 129 total posts for the year.
Almost a year ago, I was reading the memoirs of a tradition-loving, brilliant and homosexual Englishman; and now I am again, this time Moab Is My Washpot by Stephen Fry. I haven't gotten very far into it, but already there is a line I love almost as much as Bennett's line about family secrets. Fry's most vivid memory of his day-school experience is an incident in which his courage failed and then he proceeded to lie extensively about it; but to his surprise his teacher has no recollection of it, but instead mentions a charming--but in a way no less humiliating--moment that Fry had completely forgotten. "In John Kett's past the sun shines and birds sing, in mine there are banks of black thundercloud eternally forming over my head." I sometimes feel this way.
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