he said, looking up at the ceiling but not seeing the ceiling. “It matter to me, Jefferson,” she said. “You matter to me.” ERNEST J. GAINES, A Lesson Before Dying I’M ALWAYS COLDEST IN THE LAST WEEKS OF WINTER. My body is worn out from keeping itself warm for months, and I can no longer fight against the chills coming in under the door. In an effort to find sun and warmth, I read Scat by Carl Hiaasen on the last day of February. I knew Hiaasen would take me to Florida, immerse me in heat and humidity, and make me want to live out of a canoe, traveling around the sprawling wildernesses of southern Florida’s Ten Thousand Islands. I had a great trip, but when I rose from my purple chair, the grass outside my window was still brown. Snow survived in dirty clumps, glistening wet and icy under a cold gray sky. I wasn’t in Florida anymore. I was in a Connecticut winter, and it was ugly. I went to my computer to read over again the Facebook message I’d received just days before.
What do You think about Tolstoy And The Purple Chair?
