|My make-shift mailbox with no mail|
We spent a really quiet weekend in the country. It was the first warmish weekend and I wanted to check on the house and make sure there were no leaks. It was so deeply peaceful there that I was able to start reading a 746-page daunting tomb, Proust by Ghislain de Diesbach that my friend George put me up to reading. George, was so alarmed that I had not read Proust in my college days and that I in fact thought Proust was a German writer (based on his Germanic-sounding name and my ignorance,) that he proposed I read Proust's autobiography before reading his work. Easier said than done. But in the country, at least it is quiet enough that I can concentrate. At least natures' noises replace the buzzing of the refrigerator and the swirling of the washing machine and the hum of the ever-illuminated Macintosh.