A nice mention of my book Careers in Renewable Energy, and of its publisher....
Green and Off the Grid
by Bridget Kinsella -- Publishers Weekly, 1/5/2009
Everyone's talking about “going green” and “sustainable living,” and there's certainly been an upsurge in titles published about “RE”—renewable energy. But PW found two independent publishers nestled on the same mountain in the Colorado Rockies who are producing titles about RE, and the publishers are themselves powered solely by the sun and wind.
For Rex and LaVonne Ewing, the idea to start PixyJack Press sprang from the couple's two-year adventure building a solar- and wind-powered log cabin so remote from any town (Fort Collins is 45 minutes away) that they had no choice but to go off the grid. “We learned all about solar and wind the hard way,” said LaVonne. Having crafted a fine-looking off-grid log home in 2001, the Ewings—Rex, a writer, and LaVonne, a graphic designer—decided to publish a book about it.
The Ewings spoke with a few publishers that specialize in books about sustainable living, but LaVonne said they decided to publish it themselves because they like to be in control. So with the 2002 publication of Logs, Wind and Sun written by the Ewings, PixyJack (a combination of their old AOL logon names) Press was born. Recently, PixyJack's husband-and-wife staff published a completely revised edition (the technology changes that quickly in RE), titled Crafting Log Homes Solar Style.
Sensing that green jobs would be on the rise, last spring PixyJack published Careers in Renewable Energy: Get a Green Energy Job by Gregory McNamee. The book sold through its first printing of 4,000 (a typical PixyJack first printing) and has gone back to press. While most of the PixyJack titles are written or co-written by Rex, LaVonne says the company is looking for writers to expand its list not only in RE but also in nature subjects.
PixyJack sells about 60% of its books to the trade via Ingram, Baker & Taylor and Books West, and the rest to RE dealers, educational institutions and direct to consumers on the press's Web site. PixyJack has already become known for its books, so when Dan Bartmann and Dan Fink—two men with more than 20 years' experience building wind turbine kits and giving seminars nationally on how to build and install wind turbines—decided to write a book about their work, they approached their Mountain neighbors at PixyJack.
The Ewings suggested Bartmann and Fink do it themselves (how Coloradian of them). So the two Dans created Buckville Publications and wrote and released the first title, Homebrew Wind Power: A Hands-on Guide to Harnessing the Sun. Also solar- and wind-powered, Buckville (like PixyJack) produces paperbacks printed in Canada on 100% recycled paper. Buckville is a subsidiary of Forcefield, Bartmann's company, which operates Otherpower.com, an RE online community and retail operation that sells books and materials related to RE. Buckville is currently working out a deal with PixyJack to make its book available to wholesalers.
“We just think we have the right book at the right time,” said Fink.
Booksellers see RE and green titles as a growth area. Russ Lawrence, ABA past president and co-owner of Chapter One Bookstore in Hamilton, Mont., set up a sustainable living section shortly after he returned from the ABA Winter Institute (where it was a hot conversation topic). This summer Lawrence took his home solar. “We're not totally off grid,” said Lawrence, but in the summer months he sells extra power to the utility companies. He said the store's sustainable living section is “chugging along.”
The Tattered Cover in Denver created sustainability sections in its stores this past spring. Buyer Cathy Langer said, “We had stuff all over the store, now it's one nice, briskly moving section.” She had not yet heard of Buckville Publications, but she said PixyJack's books sell well at the Tattered Cover, particularly in the sustainability's “green building” subsection.
Part of the appeal of these books is that the publishers are living and working in the RE lifestyle. The books are also graphically appealing and written for laypeople, lightening what could be dense subjects. In Hydrogen: Hot Stuff, Cool Science, Rex Ewing (who also writes novels) goes into hydrogen energy in great detail by way of the author's imagined journey to a place called the Wasserstoff Farm, where a wizard, Zedediah Pickett, entertains as he educates.
To prepare, Ewing said he read every book on hydrogen energy he could find, but he was determined to write something completely different. “I woke up one morning at four o'clock and Zed was right there,” he said. Since its publication in 2004, Hydrogen has been used by the Department of Energy for its middle school education program; it has also been adopted for college courses.
Courtney Martin, a professor and academic coordinator at Virginia Tech, used Hydrogen: Hot Stuff, Cool Science in a summer program sponsored by the National Science Foundation. “It's hard enough to get the students to read,” she said. “When I found the Hydrogen book, I knew I had hit the jackpot.” Martin also uses Careers in Renewable Energy to advise students.
“That Rex and LaVonne Ewing practice what they preach is the icing on the cake,” said Martin. “They are a great example to their readers and can perhaps dispel the notion that folks living off the grid are a bunch of reclusive curmudgeons.”
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Monday, January 01, 2007
How Old Is the Grand Canyon? Couldn't Say . . .
Apparently, Park Service employees at Grand Canyon are now being forbidden to discuss the geological antiquity of the place, for fear of offending the ayatollahs of creationism.
It should please no one that America is now so officially unevolved that its people will not accept the fact of evolution. May the Flying Pizza Monster save us all!
It should please no one that America is now so officially unevolved that its people will not accept the fact of evolution. May the Flying Pizza Monster save us all!
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Making Comics
A quarter-century ago, when I lived in Mexico and had the chance to observe the creatures up close, I concocted a Kafkaesque cartoon called "The Adventures of Bombardier Beetle." The project amounted to nothing, owing to my more than primitive drawing skills, but one day I mean to revive it. When I do, I'll owe it to Scott McBride's excellent how-to book Making Comics: Storytelling Secrets of Comics, Manga, and Graphic Novels.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
On Meretricious Publishing
A welcome rant on corporate publishing, courtesy of the novelist and essayist Gilbert Sorrentino. Though his comments are twelve years old, they're even truer today, as the whole James Frey affair shows:
Joyce, Pound, and Williams commanded the smallest of audiences and were shunned by what we now think of as "major" publishing houses. Publishers have always been craven when the odds are not in their favor, it's just enhanced nowadays because there is so much money to be made if the publisher can hit the shit machine. What is most surprising to me is the number of—what can I call them?—"absent" books published. These are books that have no literary merit, no spirit of aesthetic adventure, no rough but interesting formal design, and—this is most important—no chance of commercial success! That's what is so amazing to me—not the number of Judith Krantz-like novels published, nor the Calvin Trillin-Garrison Keillor warm and wise and witty and wonderful malarkey, but the novels that just lie there: life and love in a small town in Northern California, sexual awakening in a Baptist family in Pennsylvania—daughter flees to Greenwich Village, meets bum who makes her pregnant, discovers feminism—and on and on. Were I running these houses, I'd can all these editors in a minute. If they can't make millions, would be my thinking, I'll be God damned if they're going to put out excrement that will only break even, i.e., if we want to break even, I'd say, let's publish BOOKS. But, of course, the chances are that the people who own these houses would not know a book if it buggered them.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Time Must Have a Stop
We are at the end of history.
So a neo-Hegelian Washington thinktanker, Francis Fukuyama, proclaimed in his book of the same name toward the end of the Reagan presidency, crowing--as if to repudiate Vladimir Mayakovsky, who wrote hopefully, “The proletarian rooster crows at the dawn of man”--that with the worldwide collapse of Communism had come the final synthesis in the dialectic of history, and thus, presto, a stop to history itself.1
It was a neat equation, elegantly stated. But, having spent a little time there in the post-Tiananmen era, I wonder what the man or woman in the street inBeijing and Shanghai
Whether we are indeed at the end of this great cosmic science-fiction novel called history remains to be seen; predatory greed, blind ambition, good old-fashioned hatred, famine and plague, all offer at least the promise of a spectacular dénouement, and I’m inclined to think that Iraq will return the favor one day soon.3 In the face of feeding-frenzy speculative capitalism and of ethnicidal fracases in such places as Bosnia and Chechnya and Rwanda, history appears to have an ample store of tricks up its sleeve, enough, surely, that for millennia to come we will be obliged to climb the dialectical ladder toward what passes for a German logician’s heaven.
History endures. But, as The Rolling Stones4 presciently warned, we are clearly out of time.
Everyone of my generation, born between 1945 and 1960, seems to be in a damnable, headlong, panicky hurry these days. The younger are busier still. We all rush between relationships, shedding mates like skins. We hop from one job to the next. We hurtle from one city to another, from coast to coast, rootless. A management guru recently noted that, given this whirlwind mobility, the average hapless American is likely to meet more people in a year than his or her grandfather did in a lifetime. Small wonder, given the demands of all these pesky men and women from Porlock, that our waking hours should fall into a black hole, that our lives are not our own.
A quarter of all fulltime workers now spend more than fifty hours a week on the job.5 Most of the rest average a mere forty-nine hours a week at the workplace, evidently unaware that a century ago men and women were gunned down across the land for daring to strike for a forty-hour workweek. (Remember our martyrs!)6 For executives and managers, seventy to eighty hours of desk jockeying is common. In 1967, a Senate subcommittee declared that twenty years hence the average worker would spend no more than twenty-two hours a week on the job; poor optimists, even politicians now must sell their souls from dawn to midnight, weekends included.
An advertisement in heavy rotation on network television fifteen-odd years ago depicted a child’s Sunday birthday party in some sepia-toned but recognizable past. The telephone rings, and the kid’s father is summoned into town to attend to business that cannot wait until the morrow. The child, having just learned where father’s priorities lie, is crushed. Fast forward to the early 1990s, when another telephone summons another adult--perhaps our slighted kid, wrinkled now and bowed by the postindustrial capitalism that governs the McDonaldized globe--away from another Sunday birthday party. This time, bless his heart, Dad has a fax machine, a modem, and a bank of computer gear in the den, and he can get right to work. He pushes a button or two, hits a carriage return, and--poof!--in nanoseconds a few million dollars are zapped from Peoria to Pretoria, picking up interest along the way.7 Dad’s still missing Buddy’s birthday, but from a distance of meters instead of miles.
For his part, Buddy will likely dispense with time-costly birthday celebrations altogether when his kids come along.
This condition, the advertiser wished us to understand, is progress. And that was long ago, technologically speaking; with the advent of broadband and wireless laptops and cell phones and suchlike things, we are ever more tightly tethered to the business at hand. With time-saving technologies, our days should expand, and, just as the ergonomists predicted, they have indeed grown, but only to accommodate still more labor, useful or not, and certainly not more leisure. Work can now interrupt us at any hour of the day or night. An employer’s demands need have no respect for the clock. We can be sure that this is not the first time our grownup has been called away from the table to plug still another projection into still another spreadsheet--nor will it be the last.
A real advance in civilization, of course, would work in just the opposite direction. We would all unplug our phones on the weekend, or, better, agitate for strict laws to prevent bosses from invading their charges’ privacy in the first place.
It’s another revolution that needs to happen.
“And indeed there will be time,” wrote T. S. Eliot, “To wonder, ‘Do I dare? . . .’” Will there be time indeed? The decisions and revisions that a minute can reverse come at us ever more quickly, a mad series of entropic episodes swirling by. We have scarcely the time to dare comprehend their passage as our scant allotment flashes past, quick-marched by relativity’s drill sergeant.
In the 1920s Emily Post, the doyenne of manners, pronounced that a decent woman would mourn the death of her husband for at least three years, garbed in widow’s black. Half a century later, her late colleague Amy Vanderbilt reckoned that a week of bereavement should suffice. I wouldn’t be surprised if the figure has dropped to a long weekend by now.8 We are a busy people, we Americans; too busy to wonder, too busy for trifles like death, too busy for family, too busy to take stock of our miserable selves on this suffering little planet. We lead the world in the number of hours worked by far: 1,978 yearly by a 2000 count, as opposed to 1,942 in 1990 and 1,883 in 1980. The Japanese put in 1,889 hours, the French 1,656, the Germans 1,560, and the Norwegians, those lucky stalwarts, a mere 1,399. We have no time for ourselves, but plenty of time to do the devil’s work.
By which I mean this: The planet is suffering, in large part, because busy people consume more resources than the lazybones among us, and the busiest of them, namely we Americans, are ravaging the globe at an astonishing rate, charging into the abyss with our eyes wide open, knowing full well the harm that we do. If the Japanese wish banzai--May you live ten thousand years!--ever came true, a legion of postmodern busy beavers would scrape the planet clean before we cleared adolescence.
And that, of course, is just what we’re doing, everywhere and all the time and with ever-increasing industrial precision, felling forests, clearing deserts of their unsightly cacti, scraping down mountains, trawling oceans, busy not because we must be but because it is all we know how to do.
“Thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool,” William Shakespeare observed, writing in a world where the very notion of time as a measurable entity was new. The clock was then a recent invention,9 the product of the alchemists’ quest for perpetual motion. They found it, too: one has only to consider the Long Island Expressway at eight in the morning or the Santa Monica Freeway at dusk to know that medieval magicians must still exercise a dark power over this age of smart machines and mindless citizens.
Elsewhere Shakespeare wrote, “I were better to be eaten away with rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.” Let me second that. The end of time--of time available to us, of time under our control, of free time--wears us all away, planing off those little burs of individuality, smoothing us into perfectly functioning ball bearings in the great racecup of the State.
Any destiny but that erosion, please.
Resist. Emulate Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who sold his watch as a youth, proclaiming, “Thank heavens, I shall no longer need to know what time it is!” Take the day off, and tell your employer that you demand more hours for yourself. If the whistle blows at eight, do what pleases you until nine, then go home early. Call in sick on the anniversary of the Haymarket riots. Give the planet a break by staying in bed. Be purposeful in your idleness; invest lassitude with a political dimension all its own. Do not ask for directions, for you cannot be lost if you’re on vacation.
Spurn alchemy, revive history, and abet all acts of temporal revolution.
Take your time.
So a neo-Hegelian Washington thinktanker, Francis Fukuyama, proclaimed in his book of the same name toward the end of the Reagan presidency, crowing--as if to repudiate Vladimir Mayakovsky, who wrote hopefully, “The proletarian rooster crows at the dawn of man”--that with the worldwide collapse of Communism had come the final synthesis in the dialectic of history, and thus, presto, a stop to history itself.1
It was a neat equation, elegantly stated. But, having spent a little time there in the post-Tiananmen era, I wonder what the man or woman in the street in
Whether we are indeed at the end of this great cosmic science-fiction novel called history remains to be seen; predatory greed, blind ambition, good old-fashioned hatred, famine and plague, all offer at least the promise of a spectacular dénouement, and I’m inclined to think that Iraq will return the favor one day soon.3 In the face of feeding-frenzy speculative capitalism and of ethnicidal fracases in such places as Bosnia and Chechnya and Rwanda, history appears to have an ample store of tricks up its sleeve, enough, surely, that for millennia to come we will be obliged to climb the dialectical ladder toward what passes for a German logician’s heaven.
History endures. But, as The Rolling Stones4 presciently warned, we are clearly out of time.
Everyone of my generation, born between 1945 and 1960, seems to be in a damnable, headlong, panicky hurry these days. The younger are busier still. We all rush between relationships, shedding mates like skins. We hop from one job to the next. We hurtle from one city to another, from coast to coast, rootless. A management guru recently noted that, given this whirlwind mobility, the average hapless American is likely to meet more people in a year than his or her grandfather did in a lifetime. Small wonder, given the demands of all these pesky men and women from Porlock, that our waking hours should fall into a black hole, that our lives are not our own.
A quarter of all fulltime workers now spend more than fifty hours a week on the job.5 Most of the rest average a mere forty-nine hours a week at the workplace, evidently unaware that a century ago men and women were gunned down across the land for daring to strike for a forty-hour workweek. (Remember our martyrs!)6 For executives and managers, seventy to eighty hours of desk jockeying is common. In 1967, a Senate subcommittee declared that twenty years hence the average worker would spend no more than twenty-two hours a week on the job; poor optimists, even politicians now must sell their souls from dawn to midnight, weekends included.
An advertisement in heavy rotation on network television fifteen-odd years ago depicted a child’s Sunday birthday party in some sepia-toned but recognizable past. The telephone rings, and the kid’s father is summoned into town to attend to business that cannot wait until the morrow. The child, having just learned where father’s priorities lie, is crushed. Fast forward to the early 1990s, when another telephone summons another adult--perhaps our slighted kid, wrinkled now and bowed by the postindustrial capitalism that governs the McDonaldized globe--away from another Sunday birthday party. This time, bless his heart, Dad has a fax machine, a modem, and a bank of computer gear in the den, and he can get right to work. He pushes a button or two, hits a carriage return, and--poof!--in nanoseconds a few million dollars are zapped from Peoria to Pretoria, picking up interest along the way.7 Dad’s still missing Buddy’s birthday, but from a distance of meters instead of miles.
For his part, Buddy will likely dispense with time-costly birthday celebrations altogether when his kids come along.
This condition, the advertiser wished us to understand, is progress. And that was long ago, technologically speaking; with the advent of broadband and wireless laptops and cell phones and suchlike things, we are ever more tightly tethered to the business at hand. With time-saving technologies, our days should expand, and, just as the ergonomists predicted, they have indeed grown, but only to accommodate still more labor, useful or not, and certainly not more leisure. Work can now interrupt us at any hour of the day or night. An employer’s demands need have no respect for the clock. We can be sure that this is not the first time our grownup has been called away from the table to plug still another projection into still another spreadsheet--nor will it be the last.
A real advance in civilization, of course, would work in just the opposite direction. We would all unplug our phones on the weekend, or, better, agitate for strict laws to prevent bosses from invading their charges’ privacy in the first place.
It’s another revolution that needs to happen.
“And indeed there will be time,” wrote T. S. Eliot, “To wonder, ‘Do I dare? . . .’” Will there be time indeed? The decisions and revisions that a minute can reverse come at us ever more quickly, a mad series of entropic episodes swirling by. We have scarcely the time to dare comprehend their passage as our scant allotment flashes past, quick-marched by relativity’s drill sergeant.
In the 1920s Emily Post, the doyenne of manners, pronounced that a decent woman would mourn the death of her husband for at least three years, garbed in widow’s black. Half a century later, her late colleague Amy Vanderbilt reckoned that a week of bereavement should suffice. I wouldn’t be surprised if the figure has dropped to a long weekend by now.8 We are a busy people, we Americans; too busy to wonder, too busy for trifles like death, too busy for family, too busy to take stock of our miserable selves on this suffering little planet. We lead the world in the number of hours worked by far: 1,978 yearly by a 2000 count, as opposed to 1,942 in 1990 and 1,883 in 1980. The Japanese put in 1,889 hours, the French 1,656, the Germans 1,560, and the Norwegians, those lucky stalwarts, a mere 1,399. We have no time for ourselves, but plenty of time to do the devil’s work.
By which I mean this: The planet is suffering, in large part, because busy people consume more resources than the lazybones among us, and the busiest of them, namely we Americans, are ravaging the globe at an astonishing rate, charging into the abyss with our eyes wide open, knowing full well the harm that we do. If the Japanese wish banzai--May you live ten thousand years!--ever came true, a legion of postmodern busy beavers would scrape the planet clean before we cleared adolescence.
And that, of course, is just what we’re doing, everywhere and all the time and with ever-increasing industrial precision, felling forests, clearing deserts of their unsightly cacti, scraping down mountains, trawling oceans, busy not because we must be but because it is all we know how to do.
“Thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool,” William Shakespeare observed, writing in a world where the very notion of time as a measurable entity was new. The clock was then a recent invention,9 the product of the alchemists’ quest for perpetual motion. They found it, too: one has only to consider the Long Island Expressway at eight in the morning or the Santa Monica Freeway at dusk to know that medieval magicians must still exercise a dark power over this age of smart machines and mindless citizens.
Elsewhere Shakespeare wrote, “I were better to be eaten away with rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.” Let me second that. The end of time--of time available to us, of time under our control, of free time--wears us all away, planing off those little burs of individuality, smoothing us into perfectly functioning ball bearings in the great racecup of the State.
Any destiny but that erosion, please.
Resist. Emulate Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who sold his watch as a youth, proclaiming, “Thank heavens, I shall no longer need to know what time it is!” Take the day off, and tell your employer that you demand more hours for yourself. If the whistle blows at eight, do what pleases you until nine, then go home early. Call in sick on the anniversary of the Haymarket riots. Give the planet a break by staying in bed. Be purposeful in your idleness; invest lassitude with a political dimension all its own. Do not ask for directions, for you cannot be lost if you’re on vacation.
Spurn alchemy, revive history, and abet all acts of temporal revolution.
Take your time.
A few notes, with a tip of the hat to David Foster Wallace
1. The title of this essay is stolen from Aldous Huxley, of course. He’s little read these days, and too bad; he holds up pretty well, and he may have been one of the few modern writers to be truly happy. See Nicholas Murray’s Aldous Huxley: An English Intellectual (
2. See, for instance, Leon Hadar’s Sandstorm: Policy Failure in the Middle East (Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), David L. Phillips’s Losing Iraq: Inside the Postwar Reconstruction Fiasco (Westview, 2005), Kevin Phillips’s American Dynasty: Aristocracy, Fortune, and the Politics of Deceit in the House of Bush (Viking, 2004), and Eliot Weinberger’s What Happened Here: Bush Chronicles (New Directions, 2005).
3. Empires come, empires go. See Robert D. Kaplan’s new book Imperial Grunts: The American Military on the Ground (Random House). Then go watch Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11, if you haven’t seen it already, and maybe the last installment of the Star Wars epic, if you can stand the dialog.
4. See John Strausbaugh, Rock Till You Drop: The Decline from Rebellion to Nostalgia (
5. It’ll get worse. See
6. For a start, hunt up a copy of Franklin Rosemont’s anthology Arsenal: Surrealist Subversion (Black Swan Press, 1989). Read Kenneth Rexroth’s Autobiographical Novel (New Directions, 1991). Listen to The Clash and Midnight Oil. Then tell every child you can influence about the great traditions of American anarchism.
7. Or maybe not. See Roger Lowenstein’s Origins of the Crash: The Great Bubble and Its Undoing (Penguin Press, 2004).
8. Someone please check the revised edition of Judith Martin’s exquisite Miss Manners’ Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior (Norton, 2005) and let me know--for who has time to read the damn thing?
9. See Michael Pollard’s The Clock and How It Changed the World (Facts on File, 1995). Then see Christopher Morahan’s 1986 film Clockwise, written by Michael Frayn and starring a grumpier than usual John Cleese.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Dersu the Trapper
Instead of Huxley, I turned to an old friend, V. K. Arseniev's Dersu the Trapper, and then watched Akira Kurosawa's adaptation Dersu Uzala when I should have been working this afternoon. A nonguilty birthday treat, to be sure, but also one of the best portraits I know of cultures in collision while individuals within those cultures are doing everything they can to shield each other from the shock.
Yuri Rytkheu's A Dream in Polar Fog, to be released on April 15 by Archipelago Books, is a very fine modern rejoinder by an interesting new press. I'm giving it an honored place in my overcrowded shelf of books devoted to polar exploration, inaugurated when my grandfather gave me a copy of Richard Byrd's Alone. (Apparently he'd met the good admiral back in the day.)
I wonder what our contemporaries are reading at the McMurdo Antarctic Research Station? According to the National Science Foundation, "The library in Building 155 contains a collection of polar books, some technical books, and a great number of hard-bound and paper-back books." For no truly good reason, I'd be curious to know just what's in that great number--and whether the station's video collection contains John Carpenter's director's cut of The Thing . . .
Yuri Rytkheu's A Dream in Polar Fog, to be released on April 15 by Archipelago Books, is a very fine modern rejoinder by an interesting new press. I'm giving it an honored place in my overcrowded shelf of books devoted to polar exploration, inaugurated when my grandfather gave me a copy of Richard Byrd's Alone. (Apparently he'd met the good admiral back in the day.)
I wonder what our contemporaries are reading at the McMurdo Antarctic Research Station? According to the National Science Foundation, "The library in Building 155 contains a collection of polar books, some technical books, and a great number of hard-bound and paper-back books." For no truly good reason, I'd be curious to know just what's in that great number--and whether the station's video collection contains John Carpenter's director's cut of The Thing . . .
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Sic transit . . .
It being my birthday, I'm put to mind of mortality and immortality. On the first point, there's Tom Kirkwood's Time of Our Lives: The Science of Human Aging, which, though not as enthralling as Jonathan Weiner's broader-ranging Time, Love, Memory, has much good information on what happens as we get older. On the second--well, I don't quite share Ray Kurzweil's techno-optimism and sure don't share his taste in beverages, but he's got some interesting ideas.
I may just have to spend the evening rereading (after decades) Aldous Huxley's After Many a Summer Dies the Swan. Long life!
I may just have to spend the evening rereading (after decades) Aldous Huxley's After Many a Summer Dies the Swan. Long life!
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