Not totally futile

[flemmings]

Went out to shovel wet snow this morning and then stayed in, so today was a de facto Spend No Money day.

Made roast cauliflower and mustard sauce yesterday: delicious and indigestible. More mustard, less oil, must try with other veg.

Someone is collecting books for a (presumed) literacy project. Will take anything and will pick up, so three boxes are now sitting on my porch.

To which end I flipped or skimmed a couple of things this afternoon- the very twee Chronicles of Avonlea, a Tanith Lee YA, a Ruth Rendell by any other name depressing psychological thriller- all of which are now happily sitting in boxes in the cold. My habit of picking things up off front lawns and Wee Frees that I might want to read some day has yielded to time's winged chariot. Life is now too short for Don Quixote and A Tale of Two Cities, but not for Dick Francis and Stephen Brust.

Lord but I miss having a keyboard.

Comments

[heliopausa]

I can't speak to The Road to Yesterday - I meant Further Chronicles of Avonlea - which, to be fair, does push the envelope a bit. There's a nearly-ghost story, and an indigenous heroine (written as the outsider, though, and not set on PEI), and a mildly funny one, along with the usual serves of sentiment, and an awful Daddy-long-legs style one about educating the orphan and then marrying her. (There was some French philosopher who started all that, wasn't there? A literary fad that's just about over and done, thank goodness.)

[flemmings]

Rousseau, I think- La Nouvelle Heloise, as if the old one wasn't bad enough. These days everyone goes yuck at the idea, though of course it had a good run.

Luckily the Further Chronicles wasn't one I picked up off the curbside.