I have always wanted one of these mysterious and enviable spaces in the lives of my academical chums.
“. . .A commonplace book is what a provident poet cannot subsist without, for this proverbial reason, that ‘great wits have short memories:’ and whereas, on the other hand, poets, being liars by profession, ought to have good memories; to reconcile these, a book of this sort, is in the nature of a supplemental memory, or a record of what occurs remarkable in every day’s reading or conversation. There you enter not only your own original thoughts, (which, a hundred to one, are few and insignificant) but such of other men as you think fit to make your own, by entering them there. . .”
The “few and insignificant thoughts” are exactly what will be found here in Commonplaces.
“Thou shalt not be overcome…”
The Mug, now deserving of a capital “M,” was given to BH by his godfather in Cairo as the war was drawing to a close. It is an object that is very far from commonplace…
I gave BH as one of his Christmas presents this year the Sponsorship of a Guide dog puppy called Buddy.
A fable to remember this New Year?
“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.”
My beloved Snail, my BH, my darling husband, died a week ago today; very suddenly, peacefully, and without pain.
“You have only the present…”
“Oh, how joyfully, Oh! how thankfully, wakes the world on Christmas morn!”
Not only soldiers escaped the grip of Stalin thanks to General Anders. As many civilians as could make their way to the muster points were included in the exodus.