It is a bit fascinating, the lethargy that comes upon me when I'm unwell. I was concerned that I had vitamin d deficiency, again... but it is just a minor cold that is slowly working out of my system. Makes me feel like minor tasks are herculean, and I slow down to reflect. To excess.
I've been reading Mark Twain, his self-biography, which is unedited and therefore far more rambling that is easy to read. One of the short essays is about his landlady in Italy, who was trying to screw him over for money and property. His wife was quite ill, and this woman was very willing to do her harm to her own advantage. He is humorous in his hatred for this woman. There is something profound about Mark Twain hating someone. It makes me feel human.
The ideals a person tries to live up to, not hating, coping with those who are worth hating. Is having character a figment of light, sifting through the window and barely visible when our backs are turned?
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