Sunday Blues
The hours are too few; I am beginning to feel like Casaubon, only worse. Unlike him, I do not have the good fortune of a beautiful, doting, faithful assistant such as his Dorothea at my side.
There is never enough time. Yet, in spite of wishing for more of it, I also hope never to have too much of it; that is, I hope I am never in a position or state to wish the thread betwixt the fingers of those fateful three sisters any shorter. Whichever it is, time or no time, so long as it is peaceful and productive, then. This is my request, dear Fates.
"I take this picture of myself and with my sewing scissors cut out the face. Now it is more accurate; where my eyes were everything appears."
— Margaret Atwood (The Journals of Susanna Moodie)
You know I was just thinking *I* was like Casaubon! Except it went more along the lines of “God, are you like that priest in Middlemarch who tells his wife he is busily researching but is up to nothing and then when he dies she figures it out?” I never can remember characters’ names. Thanks for this posting. I hope you and yours are well and happy. Now I really will get back to work… xo!
We are both, apparently, in need of a Dorothea. If only there were time enough to conduct a search. Alas.