Such a busy weekend, but it was a weekend away so it was quite lovely. I do adore hotel lounging, just enjoying a place that’s not your own and being in a place you’re not usually in. I don’t have cable at home, so it’s always fun to watch cable in a hotel. I watched a lot of Food Network shows, I’ll tell you that. On Sunday, my dad and brother went to the Indy 500, which was thrilling though I wasn’t there. My dad’s always wanted to see the race, so I was really glad he could go. On Monday, we had adventures that included Half Price Books (excellent deals there), the downtown area of Indianapolis, and red velvet flavoured ice cream. Oh, it was divine!
I hope you all had a splendid Memorial Day weekend! I’m awfully tired now, but it’s nothing that can’t be solved by some Would I Lie to You? (a British quiz show), tonight and some tea tomorrow morning.
“I remember that I stood on the library steps holding my books and looking for a minute at the soft hinted green in the branches against the sky and wishing, as I always did, that I could walk home across the sky instead of through the village.”—Shirley Jackson, We Have Always Lived in the Castle (via librarianista)
“But what is memory if not the language of feeling, a dictionary of faces and days and smells which repeat themselves like the verbs and adjectives in a speech, sneaking in behind the thing itself, into the pure present, making us sad or teaching us vicariously…”
“I think people are often quite unaware of their inner selves, their other selves, their imaginative selves, the selves that aren’t on show in the world. It’s something you grow out of from childhood onwards, losing possession of yourself, really. I think literature is one of the best ways back into that. You are hypnotized as soon as you get into a book that particularly works for you, whether it’s fiction or a poem. You find that your defenses drop, and as soon as that happens, an imaginative reality can take over because you are no longer censoring your own perceptions, your own awareness of the world.”—Jeanette Winterson, Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 150(via leopoldgursky)