I am not yet in the mood for writing but, in order not to fall into the still darker waters of indolence, I am now recruiting every atom of my will to make myself write.
The question is – what about?
I should be writing about Eugene Onegin since I joined the read-along at Tanglewood and am expected to say something about it, but, at the moment, I can not. I am not inclined to pointing out the obvious – the contrasting characters of Tatyana and Eugene, the content and significance of narrator’s digressions, the way he’s coloring personalities by their reading preferences, the wonderful brevity and depth of dialogues – and I am not particularly willing to indulge into a more substantial analysis… Being fairly curious about Tatyana – a fellow introvert, I was amused to find out – it could be interesting to write about her, but, again, I can’t. In order to say anything, I would have to be in command of all the information Pushkin provides and I only just finished the fifth chapter this morning. So…
I will just make a couple of notes on the weather and try to act satisfied with it.
It is 13°C outside, slightly windy and very springish. So much so that Nature, a bit confused it seems, rushed to meet the requirements of a season that apparently came, two months early. Few beautiful primrose flowers showed their pale-yellow heads here in my small garden, and there are reports, particularly from the south of the country, on bees swarming and trees blossoming. There were also stories of fruit maturing pretty deliciously. It is all immensely interesting and spirit-lifting (how could it not be – no more depressing grayness! cheers for the light-blue sky and the mighty sun!) but also a bit sad because, in two weeks time, those fragile beings will be frozen to death. It is, after all, winter and the snow will fall soon enough.