Wednesday, November 9, 2016

The Morning After

The country's survived 240 years, I daresay it will survive another four.  In the meantime, I'm reading Anna Buchan; I find her very soothing.



I just bought Olivia in India for my Kindle. Actually it was a free download. Thank you for that.

I am reading Tana French. Her new one is The Trespasser and I think you would like her writing.

At least I am no longer sick. America has made her bed and now we all have to lie in it.

May said...

Meg Cabot has some nice books to read while things are a bit nuts.

I hope that this mess was the rock bottom and that now we can get past the yelling the election has dredged up and practice a little tolerance and cooperation.

I wish you peace.

Bunnykins said...

When I'm upset, I haul out an old Mary Roberts Reinhart or a Father Cadfael: comfortable old friends, absorbing, but not too challenging for a bruised brain.
Meanwhile, Canada's Conservative party is seeking a new leader, and some candidates are insisting on adopting Trump's immigration policies and anti-elite rhetoric (that from a pediatric surgeon, no less.)Think should go knit something I have to count.
Peace and joy to all.

Lady Anne said...

Yes, something that requires a modicum of concentration, such as knitting or cross-stich is a good idea. A few years ago I wrapped up my collection of Brother Cadfael novels and put them on Freecycle. A pity, but I Can't Keep Everything. (Lord knows I try.) I'm certainly not thrilled with the way things turned out, but it will only be for four years; given that man's health, we may end up with Pence, which wouldn't be too bad.

Anonymous said...

Riders here,

we will survive but to quote William Butler Yeats, in that moment it "All changed, changed utterly"

or if you prefer:

"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is lossed, and everywhere
Ther ceremony of innocence is drowned,
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."

from The Second Coming by W.B. Yeats