Editing a life.

It is August. I lie on top of the sheets awakened by an unpleasant dream. I hear the ring of crickets in the dark. An owl calls outside the skylight. Another, closer, at the window returns the call. Hoo. Arrr. Hoo Arrrrrr.

I am thankful to have been awakened and to live here in the woods. I think of Jane. Is she awake in her room over the garage? What about all those in the world who never hear the night?

I find I am on top of a book. I turn on the light; it is the restored edition of A Moveable Feast. The Introduction says it is about damaged memory and lost heart. I read, "How good a book is should be judged by the man who writes it by the excellence of the material that he eliminates."

Zphx, 20130810