I interrupt a reading of Michael Hofmann's TLS review of Brecht ("Rescuing Brecht," 14 August 2014) to think what a pleasure it is to read Hofmann when, rarely, he can be wholeheartedly enthusiastic. It's not so funny, maybe, but it is more moving, and he does praise as beautifully as he does disparagement and is convincing in both modes (worth mentioning because William Logan is not especially good at praise, as his article on Pound in this month's New Criterion demonstrates, again).
It rained the night before last. I had almost forgotten the sound. I had got up for a pee and I lay down on the living room floor with the door to the deck open a crack--it has turned cold--and listened to it for a while, then went back to bed and listened to it some more. When I was growing up in British Columbia, I don't think I would ever have thought that one day I would love the sound of rain--the rain that produced Emily Carr's dark, sun-filtered Douglas fir rain forests-- but I do.