Nonetheless they had reissues of some of Zora Neale Hurston's works, so I bought the one about voudoun which I was sorry not to have finished last year. Tempted and fell, also bought Rudyard Kipling's Tales of Horror and Fantasy, another doorstopper. Kipling is an impeccable short story writer and I maybe don't appreciate his stories as much as I should just because they are so impeccable. Not counting the Puck and Mowgli stories of course, which are much more on my level. But English soldiers going spla in India doesn't rivet me the way it did someone who'd watch them go spla. Good riddance, I tend to think.
* a singing *cauldron*, Gus? Cauldrons don't sing. Choruses, yes; tea kettles, yes; but I suppose 'a tea kettle of unholy loves sang about my ears' sounds silly. Supposing Carthaginians had tea kettles to begin with.
Otherwise have decided Daisy Dalrymple is not for me- much too pip pip and toodle-oo, which style works only when Wodehouse does it and tires quickly even when Wodehouse does it. Happily returned two vols to the library, a load off the conscience.
My suspicion that AC defeats malaise seems to have been correct. Slept like a baby and awoke feeling fresh. Did not /stay/ fresh because the day is as muggy-humid as one might expect, interrupted only by glaring sun. Is now set to rain all tomorrow and my shoulder aches again. This summer doesn't deluge the way other rainy summers have, but five days out of every seven are forecast to rain or look as if they'll rain or do rain, and in the end it's simply *wet*. (Like, I don't remember April and May being especially wet, but the Islands flooded all the same.)