Advent Day 7

The rain’s bashing on the window as I write, so this picture is by way of an antidote.

And who better to further lighten the gloom than Marx (Groucho, not Karl)? ‘Outside of a dog,  a book is man’s best friend. Inside a dog, it’s too dark to read.’

Emerging from the ashes of my bookshelves today is The Wings of the Dove by Henry James. I was 50 before I felt grown up enough to take on James, but it was worth the wait. Reading one of his books is akin to eating your way through a sideboard with a teaspoon, but some things you just have to surrender to. Once you accept that, it’s marvellous. I particularly love the way that after 650 pages of nothing very much, the two cataclysmic events of the book take place ‘off stage’. Henry, you old tease, you had me at ‘Hello’.

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