I was re-reading Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich this afternoon, ahead of teaching the great novella, and, as with each reading, feeling its extraordinary concerted condensed power. And then Noi provided a lovely tea of freshly baked scones and coffee.
The contrast was disconcerting to say the least. But it didn't stop me relishing the scones. And I had the oddest feeling that Solzhenitsyn might just have approved of that. Offhand of all the truly great writers he seems to me the most in touch with the day to day simple pleasures of existence - I suppose because he was so entirely deprived of them for so many years.
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