Pernod

Sadly, the end of another weekend. I spent a good deal of it writing something for the drawer (as Zbigniew Herbert once put it). Also did some yardwork. And I read more Hemingway. I shouldn't have been quite so critical of him in the post below -- I sort of like Hemingway, though I've never thought of him as being anywhere nearly as profound or important a writer as his close contemporary, F. Scott Fitzgerald, or, for that matter, as good a story teller as William Carlos Williams. That said, I have a vague craving for a glass of Pernod right now...