Golden slumbers

Toulouse-Lautrec: Alone

She remembered the summer evenings all full of sunshine.The colts neighed when anyone passed by, and galloped, galloped. Under her window there was a beehive, and sometimes the bees wheeling round in the light struck against her window like rebounding balls of gold. What happiness there had been at that time, what freedom, what hope! What an abundance of illusions!
Madame Bovary

I've been lounging a lot activity foreign to me. Summertime turns the best-intentioned among us into silly, time-frittering butterflies. The heat here has spiked considerably, causing me to crank on the AC, shut tight the windows, and close the blinds. I retreat into my feathered nest and curl up for the long summer's sleep. Any venture outside must be accompanied by a bottle of water or lead to the pool. My seclusion inside has disdained the interesting and challenging works on aesthetics that I borrowed from the library, and instead chosen a lot of napping after work, and a healthy dose of reading.

C.S. Lewis' Space Trilogy, Borges' stories, those of Julio Cortazar, and quite a few childhood picture books have been rediscovered.

Last weekend I re-read my illustrated copy of The Little Princess, a book that used to occupy many a night, well into the small hours of the morning. I love Sarah Crewe and used to hope that perhaps I was a little bit like her. The magical transformation of the attic garret never ceases to send a thrill through me, and Sarah's gift of bread to the poor girl outside of the bake shop always makes me cry.

I read Dinotopia this past weekend as well, a book where the text is highly distracting, and the images much more intriguing. I have spent long hours memorizing each bit of these pictures, each detail, word, creature. In fact, I reailized upon this recent re-reading that I have added much to the story that is not there. It was a strange realization and I spent some minutes trying to see if there were pages missing from the book. But there aren't, I must have perused those pictures for so long that I began to elaborate upon the theme they set out, to add my own details, my own tragedies and joys.

One of my other favorite childhood books was this volume of greek myths which had been illustrated in black and white images. It had an orange and white cover, split by a greek key pattern running from front to back. I was mesmerised by the tales and learned them by heart, moving on past this book to other myths and stories of the pantheon of greek gods. I can't recall what the actual title of this book was, nor the name of the illustrator, but I can remember those images very vividly still.

A lot of silly reading and a lot of laziness. Thinking about the impending move as well, and the utter lack of free time that it brings with it.