I just finished the Solitary Summer by Elizabeth Von Arnim. The book was redolent of the woman writer’s pleasantries, making the book enjoyable to read sensually and mentally. But above all, I liked the witty talks the writer gave over the garden and life. She said: “…Sordid cares may be very terrible to the sensitive, and make them miss the best of everything, but as long as they have them and are busy from morning till night keeping up appearance, they miss also the burden of those fears, and dreads, and realizations that beset him who has time to think…” That’s also, I guess, why the poor and wretched are not necessarily less happy than the rich and blessed.

 Another aspect I saw eye to eye with the writer was her observation on books. She wrote that books, like people, had their own idiosyncrasies, and would not show you their full beauties unless the place and time in which they were read suited them. For example she found that taking Thoreau to the pond and wood would be a right thing to do, whereas taking Boswell would not be. I felt the same. If I wanted to read Keats or Homes, I would prefer a late evening or an early morning while I was sober and the house was quiet, whereas if I were to read Daphne’s Jamaica Inn, I would prefer to read it after a trying day, or even better on a trip. The excitement and adventure in the story could relieve me of the boredom of the day or excite my benumbing nerve after a physically stressful expedition.

I also shared with Elizabeth in light of the companionship of books. “What a blessing it is to love books. Everybody must love something, and I know of no objects of love that give such substantial and unfailing returns as books…” I know at the moment maybe I spend a bit too much time on reading. But after the tiring trip last week without a book to company and comfort me at night (I finished Jamaica Inn, which I carried with me, within only two days), I found it was hard not to temporarily forgive my absorption in them.

Talking about books, I should recommend Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to those who found it hard to forget the fleeting –by sweet childhood. This book, as the writer suggested himself, was written not solely for boys and girls, but for man and women as well. “…for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.” Oh, I almost forgot to mention, like Thoreau, this novel by Mark Twain could also be a book to carry in the wood, by the pond, or on the grass on a fine, meandering afternoon.