“Even here I read myself to drowsiness, and, reading, I hear the cadenced trampling roar filling all the dark” (p 46). The Outermost House by Henry Beston.
This was the quote of the week while I was home. I did a tremendous amount of reading (finishing nearly three books in seven days) but best of all, I did it accompanied by the sound of the surf. That, in it of itself, was pure heaven. At night, when the autumn chill had settled in around us I would curl up with a glass of Malbec or Old Vine Zin (depending on the mood), huge wool socks, a warm hippy sweater with missing buttons, and a great book. The wind could rattle the windows and howl down the chimney but I was snug and secure in my big chair nest. My only shivers came from Mary Shelley’s description of Frankenstein’s monster seeking companionship or Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula in his creepy castle. [Dracula, incidentally, is not on any Lust list so, when I discovered that (after reading 187 pages), I stopped immediately. How pathetic is that?]
During the day after a good long hike I would drag a huge red Adirondack deck chair closer to the rail, put my feet up and devour Beston’s words. It was easy to do with the cacophony of birds darting in the bushes, the far off sounds of Trap Day trucks and boats, and of course, the ever-present surf keeping time in the distance. Each element of sound keeping time with each sentence on the page. There is nothing like reading on an island.