You need a respite from my iPad, and I must make a tour d’horizon like some hopeful periscope swivelling and scanning the surroundings hopefully.
“. . .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.
How casual our attitudes have become!
The neurologist was really apologetic; he had no idea how close he was to being hugged. I managed to resist whooping and look crestfallen.
On Boxing Day we made a careful list of all our presents and who had given what and to whom we had to write and say thank you. Times have changed.
How many new books were you given for Christmas? I was given three.
I have never in my life had 13 different kinds of tea and coffee in the flat. I had no idea they even existed, let alone might find a lodging with me.
“Never despise rabbits in hats,” CS Lewis told my mother.
Recovering from a particularly nasty bout of ‘flu has been like negotiating the lower slopes of the Himalayas wearing large furry bedroom slippers.
He can always pull you out of a black dog mood, comfort you in one of life’s not infrequent sad moments with his fixed but genuine smile.
My goodness I was lucky! Out of all the girls, when he had the pick of dozens (of his own nationality for starters), he picked me.