I read books to a degree than can only be called voluminous, and it is a shame that too few of them are stitched together with a quality of prose that enchants me. One writer I was weaned on, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, has returned to my adulthood where he has begun to work magic. For the second consecutive visit to Provence, I have passed several hours with him and his words, seated upon a patio that lies just over the hill from where he had his aerodrome. And how wondrous still to be pulled from his books by the sound of a prop-engine tracing the lines of this same hill that shadows the valley of La Mole. The narrow confines of that valley could not contain Saint-Exupéry’s restless spirit, which longed to traverse the seams of the world. Off to my left are the waters into which he did indeed find an untimely and ultimate rest, waters across which his spirit continues to fly, piloting the vessel of poetry.
On the turntable: Abecedarians, Resin"
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