The long weekend has allowed me time to finish some on-going reading a bit earlier than I otherwise might have expected to. I'm particularly pleased to have read the sixth issue of Ceriph from purple cover to purple cover. Normally I just dip into this worthy publication, picking out the plums as it were, and feeling a bit guilty over what's left disregarded - though in mitigation I should plead that I think I start everything. It's just that I don't always get much further than that.
But this time round it seemed there were plums everywhere - certainly nothing that didn't have something worth an expenditure of attention and imaginative sympathy. Even the three pieces I regarded as the weakest showed what I'm going to patronisingly term 'promise', though that's the wrong word, I know. The fact that I don't have the energy to hunt for the right way to say what I mean perhaps points to the difference between these words and theirs. They are engaged in a genuine and public quest to say something of substance in the real words required.
The delight was, though, that so many of the pieces in this issue, prose and poetry, struck me as fully assured, including those by writers with whom I am personally familiar. I think the younger me would have been a bit jealous of contemporaries capable of such levels of accomplishment. The older me simply looks forward to the enjoyment of reading what's assuredly to come.
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