October 21st 2003



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being—
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Those are lovely lines. My favorite three lines in Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind," I think. " He wrote it -- or at least was inspired to write it -- in a wood beside the Arno River in Tuscany, near Florence. "On a day when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours which pour down the autumnal rains."

On the whole I find Shelley's work a little melancholy. It's hard not to feel occasionally just the tiniest bit impatient with him.

It's raining again. Peter has not asked me to dinner since the night I told him I had plans.