After a two-month semi-hiatus, I return to the countryside and prepare to resume work on my anthology. “Autumn” is yet unfinished. I had hoped to complete the poem in January, but February is more likely given my poring and deliberate process.
I am saddened to learn of the death of Sir Roger Scruton, an eminent philosopher whose views I respected and gentle manner I admired.
A hermit, I am inclined to hoard rather than share myself. I appreciate the company of others, but the interaction feels unnatural—forced and draining. It takes me days to recover.