Still

A glimpse of Henry James' bookshelves in Lamb House, his home till his death in 1916. One of the most still photos I've seen of a life well-written - an evocation of time passing dreamily to the measure of the ticking of the longcase clock, the scratch of a pen across a page and the dust motes drifting in the shafts of sunlight. And yet outside, and perhaps for a time kept at bay by the ticking of the clock, a noisy torrent of patriotism and war roared through the deep cut between the privileged and the disadvantaged - a ruckus that accompanied the birth of the 20th century and saw it through to its end. 

Now, absolutely nothing to do with Henry James or libraries, but more of a celebration that the end of the week is nigh and it is my favorite person's favorite cocktail ...

the Friday Cocktail

Campari and Soda, 50/50 in a large glass with ice, and something really salty on the side. 

I know, I know, it doesn't take much effort to make but neither does being kind so get on with it.