The agreeable eye

an eudæmonistarchives


Nothing is quite what I’m expecting at the moment. If November was a month in which I could read fluently and easily and joyfully and curiously, December is, or currently seems to be, a month in which nothing makes sense, and every word on a page makes me peevish. I am tempted to retreat into my phone, into the blancmange mass of library ebooks, into reading alternate pages from twenty different books and following none of them – indeed, not even making it to the end of a clause, much less a sentence. I wish to read, but the habit of authors to jockey for position, to namedrop, to be precious and coy, to not really know what they are talking about though they have been given a contract to write something like a textbook, to – in short – be human with human foibles and not demigods of immaculate detail, this habit of mere humanity detracts the joy from even the limited, flawed execution of whatever project it is that they have undertaken and leaves me trapped, as though in a waiting room, apart from the pleasure of reading.


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