Dear Friends,
Happy Saturday. How are you on this fine day? It is cool but sunny today— Scotland has failed to offer even one week of consistent warmth. I will admit some resentment about this. In past years, I have always said that I could bear the winters here for the glorious reward of the summers. But after a summer of wind warnings and slashing rain and only occasional sunny days beset with humidity, I have the feeling that Scotland is testing me to see whether my love is conditional. I sigh— I do still love you, Scotland. But must you always be so moody?
I write to you having just devoured more than my share of berry danish. It’s been a chaotic week. We had some painting done so all our furniture has been piled in the middle of the room with a tarp over it. But I’ve managed to extract my chair (sort of) and a tiny table and and face it toward the window. These small acts of normalcy— the walking to the bakery, the listening to my playlist, the sitting in my chair, the scribbling in my journal—bring some calm to a busy week.
Working around a schedule of painters and plasterers, I’ve still been hard at work on writing. I’m trying to finish up (and submit) an academic article by the start of the new term (September 16th). I’m writing about Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro, which we read for my summer book club two years ago. I have basically done all the research/reading I need to do, and just need to get the thing on paper. But the going is slow. In the course of my reading this week, I was looking into the “metaphorical” readings of Ishiguro’s books, and found this interview with him. He’s speaking about how people (and I would argue especially literary critics) have a tendency to over-read novels, finding some vast and intricate meaning, when sometimes the meaning is on the surface. His comments were refreshing and made me laugh. They also made me think of Ron Swanson…
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