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by himself, content with a leisurely
survey of things, with the occasional
prolonged observation of this
or that; with sitting still.
To do
otherwise now, to take up active
fi shing, would be like taking up
years later one of those books
which, as he read it, became
the signal event of that time
in his life. And such a book, once read,
had then become (while his mind
went on to other books and other
concerns) an occupant, vivid and
quiet in him. If one day years later
he took down the book and read
into it a little way, he'd fi nd it was
still alive there in him. There were only
a few such books. The physical
book, the one that got dusty,
he would dust, and put back on its shelf.
He became aware, belatedly, that
a long narrow elegant isosceles
triangle of blazing sunlight
had been lengthening across the carpet
from the lower pane in the door
behind him, and had just arrived
at the far edge. The room had fi lled
with an early dusk of its own. The afternoon
had gone by, and he eased himself
out of his chair, dropping the catalogs
onto the catalogs sprawling in their basket.
Late February, 1995