Today marks the final edition of Dan Piepenbring's daily dose of everything-and-then-some, via the Paris Review. I will miss it.
Today I found a recipe for Mrs Ramsay's boeuf en daube. Maybe I will make it one day, and maybe it will be as good as Janet Malcolm's take on Alice B. Toklas's take on Coq Au Vin.
Today I read this, and laughed out loud. (It's towards the end; you'll know it when you see it.)
Today I tasted a memory from maybe eighteen years ago and it was as good as I remember it. But the other thing that makes taste—you know, the taster?—not so much. As Lily Briscoe might say, time passes.
And today, finally, in thinking about Mrs Ramsay's beef stew and my mutton burger, about the narrative and sometimes not-so-narrative arc of life, about what we make of what we miss and what we make of what we remember and what we want—what I want so often—to make of so much else, I read this, too: The thing to long for is the impossible thing: for time to slow, for the chance to loiter in a moment.
Like Mrs. Ramsay bringing them together; Mrs. Ramsay saying “Life stand still here”; Mrs. Ramsay making of the moment something permanent (as in another sphere Lily herself tried to make of the moment something permanent)—this was the nature of a revelation. In the midst of chaos there was shape; this eternal passing and flowing (she looked at the clouds going and the leaves shaking) was struck into stability. Life stand still here, Mrs. Ramsay said.
And life, time, the planet: indifferent.
[34 C Street, Dubai]
[venerd́ 14 luglio 2017 ore 20:41:11] [¶]