For a short while this morning
the sun burst through the clouds. I was quite taken aback. A beam of light
suddenly beat its way through my half-drawn curtains, lighting up the section
of my book shelf devoted to classic whodunits. There, to my left, the spines of
my Agatha Christies shone out brilliantly, the titles glinting in the unexpected
radiance.
Sadly enough, my first
reaction to this sunlight was to pull the curtains shut – the spines of the
books on my shelves are already damaged enough. Then, I started to wonder
whether I should take this as a reminder to re-read these (mostly) brilliant
novels.
Reading in the sunshine can
often be difficult. The light can glare off of the white page in such a way as
to make it impossible to focus on the words. Sometimes it can be too bright.
I have, as it happens, read
Agatha Christie’s books in the bright light of the Mediterranean sun. Several
years ago I had the good fortune to travel to Greece. My reading on that occasion
was incongruous to say the least: the Dame’s Hallowe'en Party and Mrs
McGinty’s Dead. But, what would have been more fitting? If I had read
Plato?
Actually, about a year ago I
can remember reading Book VII of Plato’s The
Republic in the English autumn sunshine. The light glared and I found
myself slightly dazed. It was as though I had myself just stepped out of the
cave of the famous allegory.
It has clouded back over now.
I’ve opened the curtains once more. I no longer run the risk of being dazzled.
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