In my old age, I’ve picked up a nasty habit: a fondness for literary biographies. Recently, I’ve enjoyed books about Keats, Shelley, Byron, Blake, Twain, Orwell, Tagore, Joyce, and others. It’s a strange affliction — utterly without rational basis, lacking the danger of street drugs, but like drugs delivering peculiar damaging delights. Last night, while … Continue reading Frankenstein Weather →