Which misguided frog was it who dared to say, long ago, that il n’y a pas de lettres ennuyeuses? Can it have been Dumas? It was, at all events, twaddle. Memoirs and biographies and, heaven knows, the daily posts swarm with such letters, as we all know to our cost. However, had the statement concerned diaries, it would have been a different and more accurate kettle of fish. Almost any diary is a fascination, even the purely schoolboy ones (‘Got up late. Didn’t wash. Had breakfast’, and so on right through to the end of an action-packed day: ‘Had my supper. Did my teeth. Squeezed my blackheads. Went to bed’).
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'These are first thoughts, but they’re made to last, in a way that makes you wonder how well something that feels so raw really can last.'
@sarahditum weighs up the final book in Ali Smith's seasonal quartet.
Enjoying Susan Owens’s essay on English attitudes to nature in @Lit_Review. Turns out the early moderns were positively repulsed by hills, as described in this poem by Isaak Walton’s fishing chum Charles Cotton.