Already this letter has too many similes. I blame them on the weather.
I get to spend today running errands, and I'm thinking of wearing heels, just for the hell of it. Sometimes the country life drives me to glamorous exigency. When I lived in the city, I never wore heels.
No doubt the temperature will be gruesome, but at least Thomas Carlyle won't be reviewing my latest book. Not that he's always wrong, but oy. . . .
Poor Shelley always was, and is, a kind of ghastly object; colourless, pallid, tuneless, without health or warmth or vigour; the sound of him shrieky, frosty, as if a ghost were trying to "sing" to us; the temperament of him, spasmodic, hysterical, instead of strong or robust; with fine affections and aspirations, gone all such a road:--a man infinitely too weak for that solitary scaling of the Alps which he undertook in spite of all the world.
[from Carlyle's Reminiscences, quoted in Jerome Hamilton Buckley, The Victorian Temper: A Study in Literary Culture]