... on the staircase.
After yesterday's wind and rain, we are , this morning, because there are so few of them left, beginning to able to count the remaining leaves on the tulip tree and the lime tree, on which we look out from our bedroom window. The invidual, golden leaves wave at us slowly in the breeze.
A few days ago I finished the first of the three volume edition of A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. At first it was a relief to be able to read something less demanding. But I am beginning to miss the intensity of Proust's searching analytical style, which, because it requires such close attention,
makes you feel as though you are involved in the world he describes. Perhaps this is some sort of recidivism. I expect I'll be back inside soon.