Snow last night, but at least the temperature has risen to thirty. Ten degrees in April is hard to take. Last week I planted a few lettuce seeds in the greenhouse, but as of yet nothing has sprouted and the garden soil is still too frozen to dig. I could begin pruning rose bushes and grape vines, but nothing about this weather is luring me outside. And did I tell you about the tree that fell on my raspberry patch? Already the growing season is done for.

Changes, changes. Yesterday, as I was reading the proofs of my forthcoming Vagabond's Bookshelf, I was surprised to note how much my prose style has shifted since I wrote the essays in that book. A primary difference is sentence length: these days I seem to be writing shorter sentences . . . but of course my version of a short sentence is still another writer's long one. Though I've been tempted to edit them down, I've mostly let the long sentences stand. I've found myself thinking of them as a diary of my style, just as the subject matter is a diary of my reading life. "Certain readers speculate that, when Dawn Potter was in her forties, she was reading far too many Henry James novels, and thus her expository prose was disproportionately affected."

By the way, I appreciate your many reactions, both in the comments and in private notes, to yesterday's post. I think the topic must be a sore spot for many of us. We're lonely; we think we don't want to be lonely; we can't wait to be lonely again.

And Tu Fu readers: Don't forget to do your part.