This morning in Montpelier: Harry Potter #7 held a prominent place in bookstore windows, the reds, oranges and browns of the cover standing out from everything else. Saw several individuals going about their business, carrying a copy of the book. At the farmer's market, I stopped at a table to buy a raffle ticket for the library fundraiser, as I scribbled my name and phone number on the ticket, the woman attending me said, "Oh, there's goes someone else with the Harry Potter book!", prompting an exchange about the entire phenomenon. A short while later, I saw a 20-something woman walking through a parking lot, backpack slung over one shoulder, holding the Potter novel open, reading it as she strode along.
I've read about the frenzy around Dickens' writing in his day, how people in New York would wait at the docks for arriving boats that carried magazines with the latest installments of his latest sagas. The Harry Potter books may be our version of that.
Good for J.K. Rowling. More power to her.
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Addendum to the entry of two days ago: finally found how the young starling made its way into the house. Someone -- the starling? some other critter? -- pulled out a wad of the insulation that's been stuffed in around the stovepipe, up into the fireplace's firechamber, creating an opening that could easily have become a superhighway from the great outdoors directly into my humble dump. Cheeky bugger.
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Overheard recently, a statement that took a moment for my teeny brain to absorb:
"Nothing is ugly if it is transparent."
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This afternoon, northern Vermont:
España, te echo de menos.
rws 4:48 PM [+]
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