I have not fallen from the face of the earth, nor am I somehow stuck on Man’s Search for Meaning. I’ve actually read four books since then, and am nearly finished with the fifth. I’m just having some trouble writing the review (and I’ve kind of started playing World of Warcraft). It will be up soon, I promise, along with the other belated reviews (and for the record, I’m currently reading The Taker, by Rubem Fonesca).
This post is just to let you know that I’m still alive and about as well as I ever am, and that I love sonnets, and have decide to write some. And they will be terrible. Don’t worry, I won’t inflict them on you. I was thinking about the books that I lost in the flood this summer. The one I miss the most isn’t the Emily Dickinson or the China Miéville or even the back issues of The New Quarterly or Maisonneuve. It was a book of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnets, one of the few volumes I haven’t yet been able to replace. Every time I think of that book, I think of how simple and beautiful the sonnet is, and how alive and fresh it can be in skilled, passionate hands. So that’s it, I guess, nothing really important to say.
