I don’t remember how exactly I came across this book, but it was one of those envy-inducing reads that left me wishing desperately that I could write like the author.
And everywhere, in every village pub or great temple of gastronomy, there were the proper wines, whether they came out of a spigot into a thick tumbler or slipped from a cradled or cobwebbed bottle into the bottoms of glasses that rang thinly in the faintest stir of air.
Then, days later, when we moved slowly past the Canaries, I decided, almost, that I wanted to live there. What would it be like to live on an island, such a small intensely islandic island? No…
It would be something like living for so many somnolent weeks on a small ship, as we did. There would be unrecognized emotions, and perhaps sudden flarings of strong action, and tears and then quiet again among the inhabitants. It takes detachment to live in a place where the physical boundaries are visible in every direction. And for me there is too little of life to spend most of it forcing myself into detachment from it.