A quick post:

I'm rereading Robertson Davies's What's Bred in the Bone and have been thinking about why I like this novel. There's plenty not to like, including an insouciant/flippant/comic/instructive attitude toward art, philosophy, and scholarship that I find rather wearing. But there's also plenty to like. For instance, he is a master at illustrating how one might almost become an artist, and he is also very good at delineating the way in which an artistic temperament can grow from a background of mediocrity. In this case, that background is a hick Ontario lumber town during the Great War. Davies and his fellow Ontarian, Alice Munro, are not much alike in their writing styles; but both are very, very good at comprehending the complications of backwaters.

Now I have to pack my suitcase. Have a lovely couple of days without me. I hope the sun shines for you (unless you'd prefer rain), and the mosquitoes look elsewhere for blood.