I did like one goodreader's comment that Gerald Candless probably wrote Iris Murdoch-type novels and that the characters in the book are Murdoch characters. Only half-true, I fancy: the various male love interests were mostly too decent and nice (sometimes unbelievably so). Once a romance writer, always a romance writer, and we must end up coupled two by two. But Gerald and his daughters, yes, certainly.
So now, suicidally, I want to read more Vine. Have started A Natural History of Dragons instead, and find it dull.
But also pulled from the 'bought in the 70s' shelf A Celtic Miscellany- extracts from this and that- and console myself with the epigrams (short poems, not witty satire: there's another section for that, as there should be.)
Cold is the night in the Great Moor,the rain pours down, no trifle; a roar in which the clean wind rejoices howls over the sheltering wood.
White flour, earth-flesh, a cold fleece on the mountain, small snow of the chill black day; snow like a platter, bitter cold plumage, a softness sent to entrammel me.
White snow on the cold hill above has blinded me and soaked my clothes. By the blessed God! I had no hope I should ever get to my house
The End of the Day
With the night the house grows dark. with the night comes candle-light, with the night comes the end of play, and with the night comes Daddy home.