Wednesday, March 2, 2011


We were there, on the lawn, having tea, not because we were hungry for tea cakes or because it was a bright Sunday and tea tastes better outdoors under such circumstances, for neither of these were true; the tea cakes were dry and held very little appeal; the day, while bright, was not warm; nor was it even a Sunday. Rather, we had been posted as sentries on the lawn, a combination welcoming station and line of defense against intrusion, for with our best dresses and curled hair we were to frustrate any advances from invaders, not allowing them access to whatever was to be kept secret at the main house.

a feast of Sándor Márai, a trio of novels, one newly translated

three degrees // far too late in the season for this