Stating the obvious. Raising with a vague toothache, vague yet present, and with two days of rain would be a bit more interesting. But this is not a grumpy entry, I have my favorite set of books with me, totally unexpected, almost all of them... and I am working my way through their pages, rediscovering the same feelings of content while reading that I had about ten or fifteen years ago.
The newer books - appreciated and all that - forget to bring any comfort to the simpler, untwisted minds. They bring intellectual affirmations, knowledge of all things that were and, arrogantly enough, are to be, and so many times they just share the depths of some troubled minds'... take it or leave it.
The old fashioned more comforting books are the orphans of today's critique. Very well, I don't really give a flying you-know-what on the critics and their modern choices.
Let it be autumn with a bowl of perfumed grapes, a nice old comfy book and whatever weather this autumn chooses to wear...
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