But only meteorologically, as more bad publishing news hit the fan today – don't worry, I won't bore you with any of that today.
Elisabetta and I took a half day off this afternoon, and went to the Chelsea Flower Show. It was the first time we visited it, and we loved it. My only criticism: too many people – it was almost impossible to walk around and look at things properly. But the plants and the flowers were extraordinary. And the show, unlike some other trade exhibitions – including our gloomy book fairs – is far from depressing. The exhibitors are nice, relaxed people – which reminded me that there's another reality out there that is not so desperately cutthroat and deadline-driven as our idiotic world of media.
I will leave you with the first twenty-four lines of Keats's Endymion. I am planning to pay a visit to his tomb in Rome very soon.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever –
Its loveliness increases: it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching – yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep – and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in, and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season – the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms.
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.