Polar vortex has arrived. I want only to stay indoors and drink gin and tonic and do acrostics, and must ration both of those because gin is currently, and acrostic books are generally, limited in quantity.
Have finished nothing this past week. Beaver on through Montaigne, Cohn, and Kipling. 'I cannot possibly write a book,' says Montaigne. 'My fancy doesn't run to long works.' And then proceeds to write 800 pages of short works. Ay de mi.