A few hours ago, at five in the afternoon of a pure-blue-skied, warm summer’s day, I took a glass of water outside — a couple of ice cubes making it tinkle pleasantly — and sat down in the easy chair on the deck of my houseboat, in the shade. I had a book with me too, and a pencil, but for a while I just sat there with the book lying unopened on my lap, gazing at the pine tree and the olive tree and the slowly angling sunlight playing on the water, and listening to the quiet around me. “Finally,” I found myself breathing out loud, “the idyll.”
This was my image of how I’d wanted to spend the summer. Not hunkered down at my desk like the past several ones, unaware of even the most beautiful days outside. Not trying to meet deadlines, either imposed by others or self-imposed. Not full of things-I-have-to-do. Because this year I wanted a real summer, before I begin serious work on the next book. A lazing-around-doing-nothing kind of summer, that is — a potter-around-on-the-deck and dive-off-the-end-of-the-dock and kayak-at-dawn and raid-the-fridge-with-friends and read-some-great-novels summer. A let-the-next-book-simmer-in-the-back-of-my-mind-while-the-front-of-my-mind-idles summer. A languorous, infinitely hyphenated summer, for both body and mind.
And then suddenly, when I sat down in that chair a few hours ago, that summer was here. Image had become reality.
This might have had something to do also with the book in my lap, which I opened to the marked page and continued reading. It was Patrick Leigh Fermor’s “A Time to Keep Silence.” A friend had mentioned in an email that she was reading it, and something about the way she did the mentioning made it seem essential that I also read it, though she had done no urging. She didn’t even say it was a book about monasteries and monks, which it is. She didn’t actually say anything at all about it. Except that somehow I knew it had something to do with a kind of hard-won tranquility — or what mystically minded Christians might call grace.
I was reading it neither for work nor for play, but for the serious pleasure of it. Though I confess (the right word here) that this pleasure may have been heightened in that I was reading about the drastic strictures of monastic life while cushioned in a comfortable chair, my feet up on a footstool, pausing every now and then to stroke the cat stretched out alongside as I savored Leigh Fermor’s gorgeously evocative writing, which gave the everyday repetitiveness of monasticism a stern, almost enviable beauty.
Quiet and calm — and fortunate those of us who can find such an idyll, if only for a few hours. I think of the opening line of my favorite poem by Wallace Stevens, which is also its title. Here’s the whole of it:
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer nightWas like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whomThe summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itselfIs calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
your well deserved summer Lesley!
sure we will get a sneak peek into the context of the book simmering in the cauldron of your mind, in the coming months…?
even the hint of the smell of a new dish of a book from you, whips up a healthy appetite for that extra food for thought you generate……
enjoying the same tranquility as your summer, in this month of Ramadhan……(perhaps the reason for the food analogy!).
wishes for the new project.
Nuzhat.
Lovely, restful posting and sharing Stevens’ poetry was thought-provoking. I lived (briefly) on a sailboat in North Carolina and there’s something to be said for living on the water. The salty misty breeze, the gentle rocking of one’s craft, the lapping sound of the wavelets against the hull, the occasional screeching sea gull (and later, in Florida, I found the pelicans absolutely fascinating). Enjoy your summer…
T thank you…especially for the poem, which made it perfect as a summer’s day.
The poem is like a souffle — nourishing, literal ingredients… lightened, and so delicious… Mmmmmm
May we all have many of such moments.