Gytrash

Charlotte Bronte mentions one in Jane Eyre. I’ve read the book several times why is it that I’ve not found out about it before? As far as I can gather it’s a big, black hairy dog, a phantom, a northern faerie who haunts lonely roads. I collect words. Sometimes they stick sometimes they don’t. Seeing Mr Rochester’s dog Pilot made Jane think of it. I’m so enjoying hearing it. And I’ve finished the latest William Trevor book, The Children of Dynmouth, and Timothy Gedge has been dealt with, or at least accepted, someone will show him kindness. He too was some kind of goblin, a feature of life we must needs live with, I think. And now, in this brief interlude between Trevor’s (another one is on the way from the Library on Monday) I’m back with Anita Brookner’s Hotel du Lac once more. An old friend, and perfect with its grey tones for this time of year.

I did write yesterday. But I made slow progress. Everything I do is slow. Can’t that be turned into a positive? Must everything be fast? Must everything be done for a swift outcome? I think not.