Today will be a filthy, sweaty, grubby, digging-up-the-garden day, whereas tomorrow will be a putting-on-high-heels-and-a-dress-and-going-to-the-governor's-house day. Because I will only get to read one poem at his house, I've chosen an eclogue, a piece that features both family values and filthy, sweaty, grubby Harmony. Think of it as a lobbying statement for a town that the governor never visits.

I'm almost finished with Gatsby, which is no surprise because it is one of the shortest famous novels in existence. Actually, this time through I liked it less than I did last time. I remember being impressed, during my previous reading, by the structural elegance of the both the plot and its characters. But this time, for some reason, the characters wearied me. Daisy, in particular, seemed to have lost her charm. I almost began to prefer Tom Buchanan, who, in his cruel and oafish way, is searching for some vitality, some vigor, that is not wholly dependent on wealth. He fails, of course: he can't get away from the power of his own money. But Daisy just feels like a tick. A lovely and desirable tick, to be sure, but nonetheless a blood sucker.

Dinner last night: Even though Paul was awake enough to read, we couldn't tackle Shakespeare because we were entertaining/being entertained by my friend Angela, who arrived bearing a bottle of wine and three kiwis. To accompany the wine, I made guacamole, which James arranged in front of himself like a bowl of cereal and then single-handedly consumed within 3 minutes. Fortunately, however, the rest of us guacamole-deprived eaters got to feast on potato and sorrel soup, which tastes exactly like early spring. If you don't grow sorrel in your garden, you should. It's one of the first things up and pairs beautifully with both eggs and potatoes.