author, with anthologies bringing up the rear. (After much deliberation, decided that the works of Saki had to be placed under M for Munro.)
Why am I so neurotic about my books?
Anyway, they look damned nice, lined up on the shelves.
Ann Radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794).
Sat up late pushing through volume one. All the elements of classic Gothic romance. Heroine passive but resourceful; hero / villain dark, mysterious, amp; cruel – predating Byron and Brontes. Lots of spook effects. (Understand they're all explained away 'scientifically' at the end of volume two; if so, a bad mistake. M.R. James speaks of her 'exasperating timidity' in this regard. Check reference.) Plot dated, but loved the descriptions of picturesque scenes, esp. Udolpho itself, rugged Apennine castle. Would be nice to put book on curriculum, but only one student in a dozen would read it. Too damned long.
Long for me too. In fact, had to keep remembering to slow down, be patient, let myself unwind. After twenty years of school, I've gotten into habit of skimming everything, as if novels were newspapers. Tried to put myself in frame of mind of eighteenth-century reader with plenty of time on his hands amp; no distractions.
Certainly no distractions here. No TV or movies, no goddamned Sunday Times, no friends to call or drop by… Nothing but the insects batting themselves mindlessly against the screens.
What was it Emerson said in his journal? 'Thank God I live in the country!'
Suppose it's time I got some sleep. Wish to hell there was a bathroom in this building. Poroths said they'd leave the kitchen door unlocked for me, but I sure as hell don't feel like stumbling all the way back there without a flashlight amp; maybe waking the two of them lip. Looks so goddamned dark out there. Where did all the fireflies go?
Maybe I should get a hollow metal oil drum to pee in amp; lift it for exercise each day as it fills, like the guy who started out lifting a calf every morning amp;, by the time it grew up, was strong enough to lift a full-grown bull.
Guess I'll water the grass in front of this building: pissing beneath the stars, just like my ancestors. Very romantic. (Though God knows what'll be crawling up my ankles.)
At least the crickets are still there to keep me company.
Back inside now. Felt vulnerable, standing there against the night, but must say the sky looked spectacular. I don't think I've ever seen so many stars amp; can't remember the last time I actually saw the Milky Way. That's something else the city doesn't have. (Though, typically, my first thought on looking up was, Jesus, it's just like the Planetarium!)
Anyway, stood there gawking till my neck got stiff.
But the real shock was the view I got of this building. The lamp on my desk must be the only illumination for miles, acting as a sort of beacon, amp; I could see dozens of flying shapes making right for the screens. When you're inside here, it's like being in a display case: every eye can watch you, from the woods amp; fields amp; lawn. But all you see is darkness.
It wouldn't be so bad if this room weren't open on three sides -though I suppose that does let in the breeze. Wish the trees didn't crowd so close to the windows by my bed. The middle sections of their trunks are all lit up where the light falls on them; between the undergrowth and roots, there's not even enough space back there to
Two A.M. now, and a few moths are still hovering outside the screens. A little green one must have gotten in when I opened the door. It's flying around this lamp now, along with several gnats too small to kill.
Lots of noise out there, too. How could I have said this place was silent? Trees moving, branches snapping, sounds of breeze amp; running water. Frogs now, croaking somewhere in the distance, with the crickets coming in behind them.
This is what I wanted, I suppose.
Just saw an unpleasantly large spider scurry across the floor near the foot of my bed. Vanished behind the footlocker. Must remember to get that insect spray, amp; flashlight.
Wonder what Carol's doing now.
June Twenty-ninth
Dear Jeremy,
Greetings from the Apple! I'm glad to hear you're enjoying yourself, and that you haven't fallen down any cisterns or caught poison ivy or been eaten by a bear. We'll make an outdoorsman of you yet!
You really deserve a nice long reply, but this one's going to be short, as I'm writing it on my break, with half a dozen people in this tiny office breathing down my neck. I just wanted to let you know that, thanks to good old Rosie, I'll be able to see you more easily than I'd expected. It turns out Rosie owns a car, and he told me I could borrow it this weekend, as he has some 'very important business' (he pursed his little lips and looked oh so stern as he said this) which will be keeping him in New York.
The only drawback is he needs the car on Monday for some Fourth of July affair, so I won't be able to take advantage of the three-day weekend. Still, it'll be nice to get out of the city, and we'll have some time together. I hope to get an early start Saturday morning, so if all goes well I should be there by noon. I wish I had some sort of map, but Gilead sounds like one of those little towns where everybody knows everybody else, so once I get there I'm sure I'll find someone to give me directions to the Poroths. I don't expect to have any trouble; remember, you're dealing with the third runner-up in the B.C. Y.C. Senior Girls' Pathfinder Competition.
Rosie's really done a lot for me, I must admit. He's a very dear person and treats me just like his own daughter-or, rather, granddaughter. He says he doesn't think I'm eating right, so tomorrow, before I come to work, he's taking me out for a champagne brunch at some fancy place on Twenty-first Street. Now that's the sort of life I think I could get used to -a glass or two of bubbly in the morning and I'll be floating all day! And yesterday he brought me a bottle of wine from, as he called it, his 'private cellar' (which is probably just a cupboard above the kitchen sink). Maybe I'll bring it out with me as a house gift this weekend.
I've also been working very hard, believe it or not. I want Rosie to feel he's getting his money's worth. Last Saturday I really buckled down and went through all those articles he gave me, so I could have the summaries ready for him when he dropped by here on Monday. I think that really impressed him, at least I hope so. I charged him for twelve hours' work (actually it took me close to sixteen), and he gave me a check for $ 144 right there on the spot. He took me completely at my word. After the way some people treat me in this stupid library, I really appreciate decency like that.
By the way, rather than go to the trouble and expense of Xeroxing those stories you'd requested, I'll simply bring you the entire book this weekend. It'll be a lot easier, and anyway, Rosie's convinced me that things like that are much more fun to read in the original. I'll sign it out before I leave work today.
Rosie's just amazing when it comes to books -1 mean the things he's learned. You'd be surprised, he's really quite good company, for a person his age. He's been all over the world (mostly doing some kind of heavy research in linguistics), and he tells the most incredible stories. I had him up to my apartment last night, just for coffee and cake, and he talked to me in something called Agon di-Gatuan, which means 'the Old Language.' He's-teaching me a chant in it and promises I'll be able to speak it fluently by the end of summer. It's like nothing I've ever heard.
Well, my break's just about over, and I'd better end now if I want to get this in today's mail. See you on Saturday.
XXX
Carol
P.S. Rosie gave me something for you. I'll be sure to bring it with me. He just loves to give presents. He's also very keen on order, decorum, rules, things like that, and is always telling me how 'old-fashioned' he is – 'and proud of it.' I don't think he quite approves of Rochelle. Last night, just as he was getting ready to leave, she walked in with a few of her friends, and one of the guys made some kind of joke about 'older guys stealing all the best girls.' It was meant to be funny, and Rochelle said I should take it as a compliment, but poor old Rosie looked very upset.
June Thirtieth
On some days he gives way to rages.
