His book of desires is a thousand tracts
His heart pursues where they will go, now.
Spontaneous is thought so just relax;
Originality comes, he knows not how.
He fends between ignorance and madness,
Neither extreme a true account of self.
He wends between some good and too-badness
On horseback, in court, bed, by book shelf.
With him, digression is progression.
He never seeks to hide distracting thoughts,
Interrogates his final impression:
It takes a special kind of mind and all sorts.
His book is like others in only this:
I know this, I know that, and here it is.
Photograph is of morning reading at Wye River. That’s me, soaking up Sarah Bakewell’s wonderful book on Michel de Montaigne entitled ‘How to Live’. Our cat April meanwhile gives a practical demonstration of how to live. Photograph by Carol O’Connor.
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