A wild night, with the wind tearing at the trees and flinging itself at the house. Creaks and moans and the constant slap slap of maple leaves whipping against the windows. The gale is still blowing hard out there, and I fear that the backyard will be full of limbs, though I can't yet glimpse anything through the darkness.
Somehow, though, I managed to sleep through most of the storm, waking now and then, but dipping back easily into dreams. And now I am stepping through into another day, a trudge of editing, a bit of Frost Place planning, an afternoon appointment, my exercise class, the wind and rain churning and blowing, the hours fragile, crushable, washing away.
In the Iliad I have just reached the part where Achilles kills Hector, then ties the body to his chariot and drags it around the walls of Troy, head lolling in the dust, so that Hector's wife and parents, watching from the battlements, will suffer as much pain as possible. It's a truly horrible moment, one of the worst things I have ever read.