Yours of 4 novembre poured over, and poured over again. You vixen! Indeed. Nimble quick. No, it's rather plain to see you're not one to stumble around in the half-light for your words. Elspeth is up early when the day herself is a feuille blanche, and particularly disposed to lean in and listen. (Yes, Elspeth today. I've made you a highlander.) Nothing but a matter of setting down, in ink, the contents of your morning-mind, sans drame ni réserve, hey? I'm so glad of it. Your letter delights me very much, and not only because in your prose sketch of our historical selves, you've made me a Florentine marquise. The notion you've placed yourself in a secular Flemish convent, digging for turnips in nubby linen...! Sacrée Tess. You are a treasure. I'm still smiling over it. What if I were to spread the word at court, what a white witch you are? Would you deign to come with your oils and your potions to live among us? I'm all admiration of the Belgian sisters doin-it-for-themselves, but as ever, I'm ill-disposed to hard graft and would prefer not to have anything to do with getting root vegetables out of the ground. Ah, but they were cabbages you mentioned. Still. Thank you for the masses of roses you've drawn blooming outside my windows, overlooking the jewel of Tuscany. Ca me convient. :)
I feel more and more, every day as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds.
Keats said that. Wonderful writing makes it easy to travel. On your recommendation, I've spent a few days early this month in Costal Maine, falling for this unforgettable heroine who would be completely non-plussed by my adoration. God, what a great book. Olive is with me still. Making unnerving eye contact and munching on donuts, thinking me a flibberdigibbet, surely. Hell's bells what is she talking about now, Florence? Thank you for pressing that paperback into my hands when we were in that wonderful bookstore on the rue de Rivoli. You're so right, I respect the fact of her. Immensely. I even sort of love her, but that's beside the point. She's so...undeniable. Undeniable.
And this week, your tale of our medieval avatars has me remembering Romola and George Eliot, and what her life was... then, obvious association time, girls called George, I'm thinking of George Sand and what her life was. Her funny and touching correspondance with Flaubert has me reaching for a book of their letters, and before I know it I'm down the rabbit hole and building a paperback fort in bed, just as though I didn't have an impressive to-do list waiting for me on my desk.
plein de bisouxxxxxx from Paris, where we're meant to see the sun today. We'd be weather twins, but my app says Providence is going to be overcast. Tea weather, candle weather. Blogging weather, non? hint hint.