"A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that “great wits have short memories:” and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading or conversation." - Jonathan Swift, "A Letter of Advice to a Young Poet"

Tuesday, October 9, 2012


It's not for nothing that people here insist on calling it autumn instead of fall. Although September was far less glorious than it is back home, October is slowly seducing me with its alternating mists and bright skies, with the soft, chunky layers it forces us to don, and with the glow it lends colors like umber, mustard, burgundy, and sunshine yellow. I've been indulging in strong melted cheeses, deep green broccoli, dense soft pancakes, and pan-friend apple slices. Even the cold is getting more manageable, less incapacitating.

I simply cannot wait for Thanksgiving, but I'm savoring the slow build up to it. I miss the warmth of the sun, but I'm learning to love the heat of the radiator and, of course, the hot cup of tea.

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