Here at the tiny brick bungalow, we've been playing a LOT of trivia (which is only entertaining if the wording is smart, so I call it concise "prose"), I've been making many quiches, and the days are rolling by way too fast again.
I couldn't really decide where my eyes wanted to roam next, in literary terms anyway. But this morning I located an old paperback copy of selected letters and poems from Lord Byron. This particular copy, dog-earred, yellowed, and faded, belonged to my great aunt Betty's daughter, Suzy Armor. Suzy was a bit of a genius, family lore has dictated, who ran away from north Louisiana to play in chess tournaments and then to attend Stanford. I've never heard a whole story, but apparently she was a bit troubled as well. Suzy committed suicide when she was still a very young woman, sadly, and her extensive book collection eventually took up residence in her mom's garage in Shreveport. When Betty headed to a retirement community a few years ago, she very graciously offered me Suzy's books. I hold on to these dusty little paperbacks (everything from Byron and Shelley, to Faulkner, to some illustrated biographies of George Washington) with pride, hoping I find some enjoyment in the collection that the young woman before me seemed to cherish so much. Books don't belong in a garage. I've scattered them all over this house so that on languid afternoons I might at least learn a little bit about something.
All this to say, I imagine there will be a post rather soon regarding Byron, Byronic heroes, and the romantic ideal.
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