snow

Orhan Bey is winning me over. You know it will end in disaster outwith some divine intervention. Too many plans, plots, machinations, politics. And a spiteful betrayal. I don't know how. But it will end in sorrow the one chance of happiness lost. A forgotten line from Savitri. This I can bear. Happiness is not permanent. Love is not easy only for the few. For it to be destroyed is better than for it just to wither or to be lost. A few chapters to go, have the secret police wire taps, politicos he can pass by an open window and sense a secret meeting about a bomb plot and it's of no consequence to the story. I liked that touch. But he describes the fear and anguish of the tortured man and his wife. The man knows what he is talking about. Not sure if it has cured me of my obsession with whoever it was, but it's a sound book on obsession. I must meditate. It's been a long time since I have managed an hour. Slipping back to the twenty minute sessions of the bourgeois Celtic tradition (the WI spirituality of Kensington and Celsea). Then there will still be time to read and watch the end of episode, and with my sub-light speed capability, I am half tempted to hire myself out, except.