I'm in Nova Scotia for a week now, visiting my parents. They have a little house (pink) that is a paradise to read in. I intend to resist all parental exhortations to explore the outdoors (which is, indeed, magnificent around here) and stay in the sitting room, which looks out onto the ocean on both sides, reading, all the day long.
My intended reading list:
Henry James' "The American Scene
(for Gabe: "Heavy with fruit, in particular, was the whole spreading bough that rustled above me during an afternoon, a very wonderful afternoon, that I spent in being ever so wisely driven, driven further and further, into the large lucidity of—well, of what else shall I call it but a New Jersey condition?")
Thomas De Quincey's "Confessions of an English Opium Eater"
(mom: Opium? Ed must have a copy of that. -- Ed! Do you have "Confessions of an English Opium Eater?" -- No, his copy is in Vermont)
Philip Pullman's "His Dark Materials" trilogy
"The Education of Henry Adams"
(marian adams: Yay!
me: What, is he your uncle?
marian adams: No, my great-great-uncle.)
KFC in Nova Scotia offers you the opportunity to "Poutine Your Fries" for $1.50.
I wonder is the word as infused with whoreishness to an actual french speaker as it is to my unschooled ears?