Le pleuvoir and other things

18 August 2012 § Leave a comment

18 August

(First thing first: a good rainy day song.)

The faithful has faded; the blog-fog has cleared.  All that remains is scattered notes from too many books (an impossibility, yet there it is) in notebooks strewn in the visible and invisible worlds.

Oh, really. Must it keep raining?

A few snippets from To the Lighthouse:

“ ‘It’s odd that one scarcely gets anything worth having by post, yet one always wants one’s letters,’ said Mr Bankes.”

“. . . for what could be more serious than the love of man for woman, what more commanding, more impressive, bearing in its bosom the seeds of death; at the same time these lovers, these people entering into illusion glittery-eyed must be danced round with mockery, decorated with garlands.”

(Chesterton agrees that what people make light of in mock desecration is what is most sacred in life.)

“Who could tell what was going to last—in literature or indeed in anything else?”

I’m only halfway finished with the book, yet they still have failed to make it to the lighthouse.  The weather simply refuses to cooperate.

It appears that they do eventually make it to the lighthouse

Today is the second (consecutive) day of rain in Nairobi.  It’s probably the third time I’ve seen rain at all here.  What is happening?

I’m not sure, but I do know what is resulting: bliss.  Rain is one of the sublimest mystery-delights.

If all the raindrops were lemon-drops and gum-drops . . .

So much of Bonhoeffer and Niebuhr beg adequate thought and analysis . . . yet there is simply too much work to be done before I leave—and books that demand finishing because they live here (a non sequitur, to be sure, yet nonetheless convincing for all that).

To the orphanage
(A theological companion)

In one week, I shall be . . .

(the suspense is unbearable)

. . . packing for school.

An unexciting prospect.  The exciting part is that I shall be home with my parents and Heidi.  Hurrah!

To find your way home, follow the yellow light.

The impossibility of taking all of one’s good books to school: a grand silent tragedy of life



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