Over the weekend, Marcus and I celebrated our 11th anniversary by going out to dinner and visiting an area book store.
As is our wont, we separate moments after walking through the front door, stroll solo down the aisles and peruse volumes that catch our attention. Then, much like at parties, we’ll reunite for a short time to catch up on our latest discoveries and examine current endurance levels. If our spirits are high, we’ll part again and continue the browsing. Otherwise, we’ll check out and head home.
During our first check-in on Saturday night, M remarked that after just 15 minutes in the store, I had already found two books to purchase.
“It’s still early,” I warned.
The next time he saw me — about 20 minutes later — I was carrying an entire basket filled with books, a sight that made him laugh and shake his head at the same time.
Here’s our loot:
And in this shining moment I can trace,
Down through the vista of the vanished years,
Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.
And suddenly come secret spring’s released,
And unawares a riddle is revealed,
And I can read like large, black-lettered print,
What seemed before a thing forever sealed.
I know the magic word, the graceful thought,
The song that fills me in my lucid hours,
The spirit’s wine that thrills my body through,
And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.
I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,
I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;
But I can feel and I can write the word;
The best of me is but the least of you.
Everyone has bad writing days. The blank screen blinds you with its whiteness. The keys on the keyboard remain silent, waiting for fingers to kidnap errant stories out of thin air and pound them into submission. Though filled to the brim with ink, the pen fails to scratch the page. The muse takes a long vacation.
But sometimes, one makes an effort to purposely write poorly. And the results can be hilarious. Enjoy:
(h/t Patrick Rothfuss)
“I would like to say to the men and women of the generations which will come after us: You will look back at us with astonishment. You will wonder at passionate struggles that accomplished so little, at the, to you, obvious paths to attain our ends which we did not take. At the intolerable evils before which it will seem to you we sat down passive. At the great truths staring us in the face which we failed to see, at the great truths we grasped at but could not get our fingers quite ’round. You will marvel at the labour that ended in so little. But what you will never know that it was how we were thinking of you and for you that we struggled as we did and accomplished the little that we have done. That it was in the thought of your larger realization and fuller life that we have found consolation for the futilities of our own.” –Olive Schreiner