The Grip

Perhaps it was my brag to my wife last night: I hadn't been really ill for months, despite protean weather, the sinister siege of winter in the Ohio Valley, roulette of going to the Y a number of times a week. Today I feel congested, but such appears to be lifting.

I was also hasty in contrasting Possession with Ackroyd's Chatterton. I am finding the wit of Robertson Davies here and as I noted yesterday, the disagreeable cocktail of indifferent characters, poetry and fairy tales was overtaken by an epistolary torrent that left me speechless: even jaded Jon, who doesn't much care for literary letters (the Nabokov-Wilson being the exception) nor for Victorian posturing: especially by those 100 years or so after the fact. I am pleased.