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Today finally felt like spring. I know we've already had warmed days this year, but that doesn't mean much when everything around is dead. I've seen sprouts for two weeks now, I've just been disregarding them since any day could bring a killing freeze that makes them regret their audacity. But today they got a vote of confidence from the groundskeeping crew, who were out raking away the winter cover of fir branches. Among the shoots laid bare to the sun was a winter aconite on the cusp of blooming. I was perfectly comfortable in my winter parka (probably because I forewent wearing a sweater) but I felt increasingly conspicuous as one coatless person after another passed me on my stroll downtown.

I'm glad I started the Tóibín. It's so engrossing that last night I read it walking home (something I never thought I'd be crazy enough to do). Even before he introduced the protagonist, I realised I had a tightness in my chest as the outlines of the family dynamics became clear. And if that wasn't enough, he's managed to slip in two sentences of Irish so far, both grammatically flawless. So today between a hastily-gobbled shawerma and a frozen yoghurt in the open air, I popped back into the bookstore where I bought it and picked up another of his novels--and SOMEHOW John O'Hara's Appointment at Samara leapt into my hand along with a Dezső Kosztolányi novel.

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