Oh Lord, Didascalicon may yet again be put aside:
"I sent one boy to the gaschamber at Huntsville. One and only one. My arrest and my testimony. I went up there and visited with him two or three times. Three times. The last time was the day of his execution. I didn’t have to go but I did."
That, the opening of No Country For Old Men by Cormac McCarthy (who is starting to edge up on Willie in my heart).
And in the same package:
"Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."
That, of course, the opening lines of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
How can I possibly not read these immediately? I got to page three of each before I could put either down and that was freshly out of the box and with a car pulling in the driveway to my shop.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Go to town, girl!!
Lawdy, lawdy, what a giftbox! And Waylon rode shotgun for the books as well for background mood.
I’m punishing myself for the extravagance by putting McCarthy aside until I at least finish the lit journal I’m on.