"Slowly, slowly", seems to be characteristic of my new moving picture free existence. All at once I find that my time is no longer scheduled by the hour but by the page or the piece, that my time has taken a far more malleable mould.
I drift paradoxically idly from reading a few pages of one book to a few pages of another. Paradoxically, because this new life is far from idle. To a mind sapped of the ability to concentrate on a dense piece of prose, or rather to one unused to having this as leisure option, the prospect of a few more pages of Proust can sometimes seem more daunting than pleasureable.
On the flip side, there is a delight in the depths revealed by a single exquiste sentence or the spreading, messy thoughts inspired by the most meticulous of prose. Pockets of time appear also, free of distraction, in which the mind can meander gently through its corridors and pick up and discard at will. If only the corridors were a little more full...but there is time enough.
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