Today was one of those perfect October days I remember from being young. And it was even more wonderful because today is my day off this week. In your face everyone that had to work today.
So today, feeling slightly poetic and whatever, I reread a little bit of Hemingway that I'd forgotten about. Now I'm off to play some guitar, but before I do I'll leave you with this:
"On the eastward crossing on the île de France Thomas Hudson learned that hell was not necessarily as it was described by Dante or any of the other great hell describers, but could be a comfortable, pleasant, and well-loved ship taking you toward a country that you had always sailed for with anticipation. It had many circles and they were not fixed as in those of the great Florentine egotist. He had gone aboard the ship early, thinking of it, he now knew, as a refuge from the city where he had feared meeting people who would speak to him about what had happened. He thought that on the ship he could come to some terms with his sorrow, not knowing, yet, that there are no terms to be made with sorrow. It can be cured by death and it can be blunted or anesthetized by various things. Time is supposed to cure it, too. But if it is cured by anything less than death, the chances are that it was not true sorrow."
- Ernest Hemingway
Islands in the Stream