Brushing ash from your hair, comparing alibis

I loved Sylvia Townsend Warner's Mr Fortune's Maggot (1927) and The Salutation (1932), handily collected into one volume by the NYRB (although I prefer the cover of the edition I have), but most things are pretty terrible right now.

nineweaving scanned me a photo of Ralph Richardson circa David Storey's Home (1970).



It does not make everything better, but it's really nice. derspatchel told her I would hang it on my wall if it were a real portrait. I probably would.

Strength through joy, he had a car made out of soy

I intended to shower immediately after the last post, but a moment of link-distraction led me to a page of haiku about CEOs.

I can write haiku about Henry Ford, too:

Hey, Anti-Semite!
How's that rubber plantation
working out for you?

Goodnight.