Some days, my mood can only be described by using the name of an author, playwright or poet. For example, while eating muffins, I generally feel very Oscar Wilde-esque because, after all my dear fellow, one simply cannot eat muffins in an agitated manner.
Today, I feel very Evelyn Waugh-ish. Now, the only Waugh I’ve ever read is the ubiquitous Brideshead. And I only read it once-like three years ago. But I loved it. I think about Charles and Sebastian and of course Aloysius oftenly. And I think I need to reread it soon.
Anyway, I was feeling very much like this quotation earlier today: “If it could only be like this always – always summer, always alone, the fruit always ripe and Aloysius in a good temper…”
But then, I went looking for more Waugh quotes and found this one: “I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then, when I’m old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.” I feel like that today. I really do.
This one, however, really gets me. “No one could really hate a saint, could they? They can’t really hate God either. When they want to Hate Him and His saints they have to find something like themselves and pretends it’s God and hate that.”
Waugh makes sense to me. He just does. I think he and I might be a species of kindred spirits.
And if you’re wondering what ever happened with that open letter to my knitting, well, my knitting seems to have taken it quite well. The lace scarf is still crawling along. I did start on a sweater with size 10 needles and bulky weight yarn that is coming along quite wonderfully. And yesterday, I had a fit of industry. I read the second half of The Fountainhead and turned the heels in two socks. Now each sock needs a foot and a mate. But turning the heel is the hardest part. It’s all gravy from here.
On an interesting note, tomorrow is G.K. Chesterton’s birthday. If he were alive, he would be 137 years old. Regardless, we’re having cake tonight for the vigil of his birthday.
And also interestingly, tomorrow is also C.S. Lewis’s half-birthday. But according to my grandfather, only half-wits have half-birthdays. Je ne sais pas.