While keeping a journal of the plague year might be of interest to some readers I'm positive that I wouldn't be one of them. I was never tempted to mine Daniel Defoe's work in that vein, even though I see myself as being possessed of a congenitally curious nature and despite having all the downtime in the world.
This has been an incredibly fruitful year, and I've been reading a host of major and minor novels, short stories, large and small works of non-fiction, essays, tracts, poetry, and have even delved softly into the murky depths of the ancient, medieval, and Restoration worlds.
In between these breathless forays into which I was propelled up, down, across and roundabout my own visionary expressway I've listened to and watched hundreds of lectures on literature, literary lives, societies, cultures, and yes, even many on the meaning of life. As well, I've attempted to keep up with most of the local, national, and international shenanigans that pass these days as news.
So, that being said, I, twice-vaccinated, but with no physical place to go, shall be perfectly content to continue my incredible journey in the coming year, or years, as long as I am able to read, listen, and learn.
