I’m both listening to and reading ‘1913: The year before the storm’ – a fascinating account of the era with passing vignettes of people who would make, or destroy the rest of the century from Hitler to Stalin, Kafka to Tito, Cezanne to Picasso and Franz Ferdinand and Trotsky.
The year Ecstacy received its patent and the fully intact Ozone Layer was identified. Then all hell let’s loose in 1914 to sweep away the old.
The line that took me to the book concerned Proust – describing how he created a cage for himself so that he could write, with the light shut out and three layers of curtains to muffle the noise. My quest to find such peace found me on the beach behind a windbreak – the house is in turmoil as various parts of it are pulled out. The alternative is to rent office space – take to sea – though that would be a distraction.