von's enthusiasm (short-lived as it might be) for classical chinese poetry has got me looking over the chinese texts i have in the room, and it came to me that what i really wanted to do right now is to reread hongloumeng thoroughly and savour it slowly. i don't imagine there will be the slightest chance of that before springbreak. so too has my biography of e.b. white has sat unread on the mantlepiece above my boarded-up fireplace these five months past. just a few hours ago i was reminded of it on seeing roger angell's recent essay in the new yorker, a memorial to his stepfather. perhaps the early paragraphs, set in beacon hill, drew the silhouette of white's figure in the snow, and set him down much closer to me.