A small, lovingly-written meditation on simplicity, the necessity of having times for being alone, and the alteration of relationships throughout life. Oh, and shells and beaches. Pretty and intelligent, but a passing familiarity with Taoist philopsophy will cover the same ground. While I found nothing new here, I nevertheless enjoyed the prose and do not resent the hour I spent reading.
The Beach is not the place to work; to read, write, or think. I should have remembered that from other years. Too warm, too damp, too sofot for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. One never learns. Hopefully, one carries down the faded straw bag, lumpy with books, clean paper, freshly sharpened pencils, lists, and good intentions. The books remain unread, the pencils break their points, and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even – at least, not at first.
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