In bypass interventions, it is famously customary for there to be a shopping about for vascular fragments which might be lifted from here, to be placed over there, to restore the feedback loop of the underlying engine to a kind of continuously impartial distribution. I do not care to think of this as Scarlett O'Hara's slicing about among the curtains, to craft a dress to impress Rhett, so I wouldn't put it in those terms. But the window can suffer its indulgence of this raid with incongruous strains, said to be temporary, such that as one may favour the recipient limb, the donor groin may spontaneously command equal empathy, and restoring one's step is not the simple matter one may have supposed.
In Virginia we are spared any presumption of level terrain, our pavement being much more percolative and receptive to vegetal propagation than, say, the sidewalks of San Francisco; so that what we might yield in variation of incline we more than recapture in unpredictability of surface. For this reason the shirtless neighbor really comes into his own as a support, where the ordinary set of crutches would be futile, to say nothing of inhumane to our burrowing populations, and the billowing shirt might only mislead as to the proximity of the stabilising frame. A solid bannister, if you will, for what really is a churning sort of foundation for the stride.
The otherwise unthinkable hauling on of our 501's, molded over time to en-tirely lither femoral geometries, is likewise assisted by the shirtless neighbour, by example. A little practice in the milder sun of March is very well judged, and naturally gives way to the restorative nap.
I have sent an English dog out for showing, with a handler involved in his breeding; and I have sent one out for rustication with his breeder during a move of residence. I have never before sent an English dog to the care of others while I've been in hospital. The return of the English dog under such circumstances is a game change.
It does not fail to resemble awaiting the arrival of a new puppy in a fa-miliar line, such as my English dog Whit is, the nephew of my first, Geordie. It is certain, that the adjustment is to be welcomed and yet will have been, underestimated.
Of all things about this page, the one that should be the most obvious is that it has no métier and only the essayist's diverse if not random tug to put things into words which, more and more, we like to think of pictorially. This can seem grandiose, arising from an ordinary life, but from this side there is an element of the lark to offer mitigation.
Within two or three hours of this mug of coffee, I will incur the return to my house of an English dog, to resume residency with me in all that his station implies. Cus-tom and practice in accommodation have been well rehearsed, and I will not need to show him where his water is. Indeed, I will not need to tell him he is home; he will have scented it distinctly, from every other farm in this placid, rolling neighborhood of pastures and ponds, from six miles away. With that perception he will be quickened to accelerate his progress by any means possible; and I will have followed him home.
It is with his sense of possessing this domain that he affords not merely that anchor, but that spark of domicile, be it ever so out of place, which gives me this home. I do not object to a provenance so innocently bestowed, that it should be so unperfected without him. There is no inversion in the necessary chain of care and authority in this unusual kind of recompense. I have the task, he has the gift.
home, as the signature he has given himself from a cosmopol- itan inheritance, breadth of
curiosity, and way of life.
It was far from foretold, in his absorption of the manners of a gentleman, that he would direct even them, too, toward his investigation of the genius of place. I draw the inference from his work that we see demonstrated in Henry James, that assets such as affection, reticence, and deference are truly our most powerful instruments of observation; that the foundation of all consolation of learning is the humane temperament.
This view of a terrace in the Basque town of Guéthary, although only of built works, could not have been made without those gifts, and we refresh our heart in looking upon their discovery.
And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement
from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
At one of those blogs, the other day, which grant a safe haven for gastro-nomic discourse in public, I found myself stumbling in as the discussion was centering on just how far to go with hopes for a decent poached egg at Claridge's. Oh, you can't know how this conundrum lifted me from that post-operative haze under which I still labour, sometimes all but knotted in my sheets in torments for a slice of seaside sourdough, dappled in Normandy butter and plums. The hiatus was almost as salutary as if I had gone ahead with Mrs David's recommendation, of coddling my eggs in caramelised carrots and béchamel; before reluctantly rotating to another page in sitù, to read of Rick Santorum.
Little, indeed, had I been able to perceive the prosody in the Spring our politics have been enjoying, as one of alimentary escalation in lusciousness with every passing day, one rival's taunt of another's palate deficiencies resulting in ripostes of ever loftier Lucullan lunacy for the next news cycle. Surely we can all remember the day, before this campaign commenced, when the panicked piling on of super-fluous ingredients had not yet so robed the shimmering yolk of satisfaction in surfeits of amour propre? But there we are: a spot of debauchery infallibly tracks with our higher reachings of rectitude, at the hedonistic breakfast table of our politics.
Now that the season has exploited the South for all its enthusiasms for these tendencies, it's natural to wonder how genuinely crazier our candidates can get, even at a convention which promises to be a cockfight. It's enough to restore us by two's to our sheets, to rusticate in the fresh and local underlying ingredients of everyday nourishment, just to weather the culinary heights of a politics of battling foams. Who knew, for example, that the campaign for compulsory childbirth would escalate into one against adoption, only thence to condemn intercourse? How can we fall between so many stools, with a single vile body?
Possibly it does not beg too much forbearance of our reader, to propose that all of this fanciful flight to lusciousness is really a way of our leadership's distract-ing our attention from the china, as the acuity of whose bluity calls out for nourishing clarity, and truer expositions of the ingredients of our day. But this is china inherited, not shopped for, and it seems that as much as they want it, they do not care for it. Feasts of thrills proliferate, for paper plates of entertainment, the china in the sideboard empty in a bacchanale of vanity.