The rain is raining very hard, it rains on ships and trees...something like that. A Child's Garden of Verses comes to mind more frequently. Not long ago I took out my childhood copy, and was (mildly) surprised by the flavor of its dicta, punitive my daughter sniffed, not quite believing people talked to children like that. It's not far from the principles of my upbringing, however, which brings me to Coetzee whose new book, Summertime, I'm reading, and thinking family life in South Africa doesn't sound too removed from family life in western Canada.
It is raining. It is raining on the zinc of the church roof, it is raining on the sidewalk and on the roofs of cars. Mournful strains of organic music. Mr Eliot's Sunday Morning Service is Ending. The self-appointed guardian of the side door carries on his endless conversation with passersby: communicants and dog-walkers.