"I must own that when the door was shut I began to consider myself as too far from the living and somewhat too near the dead." —Sir Walter Scott[more ...]
I look over Bill's shoulder to see what he's pointing at. "Fingerprint cyphoma, very rare," he writes on his slate. I swim around him for a better look, tipping my head down and fins up, poking one finger into the sand for stability. Finally, I see it. An inch-long orange-and-black creature clings to a branch of coral.[more ...]
Sir Patrick Leigh Fermor, a writer and a man of famous charm, has, in his 90s, been all but canonized. Anthony Lane wrote a loving appreciation of him in The New Yorker last year: St. Paddy, patron saint of British travel writing, ideal dinner-party guest, a treasured national secret.[more ...]
The smartest thing I did in Bangkok was to move from the Buddy Lodge on Khao San Road to the Oriental, which I selected because it has an author's wing with Joseph Conrad, Somerset Maugham, and Noël Coward suites. I feel you should patronize any institution that still pretends to believe writers are more important cultural figures than directors, musicians, or actors. A century from now, it will have Steven Spielberg, Mick Jagger, and Robert De Niro suites.[more ...]